Lost Souls inn
by AliceAo
Summary: John doesn't know it yet but he is developing feelings for our favorite Detective Inspector. Case fic. complete.
1. It's a date, Doctor

The scene was almost-white with the remains of snow, clumped into molehills along the margins of the narrow country road, slushing beneath the wheels of passing vehicles. Sherlock Holmes held himself rigidly behind the wheel, the skin of his knuckles taut and white with the cold. John Watson looked left through the passenger window, his bright eyes examining the shadow of evening clouds closing in on what had been a rather bleak winter's day.

The men were silent, but the jeep was tense with unvented frustrations. They had been driving around the countryside for the best part of three hours without so much as a sign of civilization. Signs pointed north, south, east and west for hundreds of kilometres from their destination. It was Sherlock's turn to drive. He insisted on taking the wheel when John shifted his weight from his bad leg after an hour in the driver's seat.

"Move over" Sherlock had insisted, basically pushing the older man out the door and sliding over the control panel in the middle of the seats.

"Alright, alright-", John sighed, his hands over his head like a hostage being threatened with a spork. "-do you know where we are going?" John continued.

Sherlock shot him a glance from the corner of his eye before adjusting his seatbelt, "Of course I know where we are going. I've only lived here my whole life, have a photographic memory of all road works and highways in the greater London area and besides, because you do not trust my judgement, we have this", he squirmed in annoyance, patting the dashboard. John had taken the liberty of installing a small GPS navigation system in the front of the car.

"A precaution, Sherlock, in case I fall asleep-" John replied before crushing his open palms into his eye sockets. "- which is likely because I am absolutely knackered."

Sherlock twisted the key and the engine roared to life. "You should trust me, Doctor Watson, go ahead, take a break, you have been so useful to me over these last few days-".

John smiled lightly, not believing the compliment but appreciating it none the less.

"When we get back to the flat I'll carry you in and tuck you into bed like a child and bring you some warm milk."

The smile cleared off John's face once the veil of sarcasm had been revealed.

"Piss off, you arse." He frowned making an exaggerated turn in the passenger seat away from the driver and folded his hand under his head, feeling the long days and longer nights of the past week weigh in on his body. The jolt sent a searing pain down the length of his leg, making him wince and squirm in the seat.

The last case had been tough, and monotonously slow to kick off. Legalities had to be abided by more so than ever and waiting for clearance had taken its toll on John, and even on Sherlock, who was of course too stubborn to admit it. The suspect was part of a very high ranking and notorious crime family in Los Angeles. On the run from American law enforcement, Antonio Polantizi, sought refuge in a small cottage in the middle of the English countryside, far from the reach of civilisation. Already awake more than 48 hours, Sherlock had tracked down the suspect with the aid of a used sachet of sugar in a local café. John and the detective set up a night-watch on the man in question. It wasn't until the following afternoon that Lestrade and Donovan showed up with reinforcements.

"Sorry we're late boys-," Lestrade whispered sticking his head through the window of the car, patting John on the arm, "-traffic was a nightmare. Turned right at Menlo junction and nearly ended up in Norfolk!"

"You're tardiness will be reprimanded at a later time," John croaked his reply, imitating his housemate, his voice groggy with tiredness.

"Oh it's a date, doctor," Greg winked, pulling out of the window just before giving John's arm another quick squeeze.

John sat staring at the space the detective inspector had just been. His tired brain tried to figure out the dialogue of the last two minutes, his eyes wide and his face set in disbelieving shock.

"Stop thinking so hard, you'll give yourself a brain clot." Sherlock chimed in the seat beside him, the collar of his great black cloaking his amusement.

John opened and closed his mouth, striking a rather familiar resemblance to a goldfish.

"But-"

"Yes?" Sherlock dragged out, watching John's face shift as the hemispheres of his brain pulsed with concentration.

"He's married."

"Divorced. The wife finally signed the divorce papers and she has nearly full custody of the kids"

"How do you-"

"Cufflinks. He is wearing cufflinks to a raid. I saw them when he was caressing you. His tie is new and he is wearing a new brand of aftershave. He's out to impress. Only men notice a new tie. Women would notice a shirt or a haircut or even the aftershave, but a man will only notice a tie. A new lease on life it would seem our dear DI is experiencing and it seems his new life brings with it a new fondness towards men which, to be frank, is entirely right on his part. Women are so boring. Can you really be so dull?"

Sherlock's monologue was met with a blank stare and an extended silence.

"Shut up, you idiot. And he wasn't caressing me."

"Of course not, John." Sherlock smirked.

John started the jeep and pulled out of the driveway.

That was three hours ago.

John had dozed into a restless sleep for just over two and a half hours. Since waking, John had yet to see a sign or a landmark he recognised. For every sign that pointed towards London, the number that followed seemed to be increasing the longer they drove. John furrowed his eyebrows and turned to a clearly anxious Sherlock.

"Might I ask where we are?" John hoped the answer would be better than he was expecting it to be, but his stomach dropped when he looked at Sherlock's face. It was stern, the same way his face fell when he was measuring chemicals, or examining a faceless, mutilated dead body.

"Oh no, Sherlock!" John sighed, "No, no, no, no, no, no, no"

John continued to moan until Sherlock exaggeratedly blew his fringe out of his eyes, which were turned up to the sky.

"No! Not tonight Sherlock, you do NOT get to be a drama queen dammit! I had a date tonight. You knew I had a date tonight! Did you not remember that or is your huge brain incapable of holding such trivialities!" John's face was red with anger and Sherlock watched with the corner of his eyes as his flatmates nostrils flared with infuriation.

"I can't believe this, I just- HOW can we be lost?" John bellowed, throwing his hands into the air.

"How can the great Sherlock bloody Holmes be lost, a photographic memory of the roads, you IDIOT!" John slammed his hand into the dashboard and cradled his headache with his other hand.

It took only a few moments of silence for John to feel guilty, but he wouldn't let the overgrown manchild see the weakness.

"Menlo-" Sherlock broke the silence, "- I took the wrong turn in Menlo, like Lestrade" putting a further emphasis on the end of the sentence.

The name sent a jolt through John, and he once again squirmed in his seat. His mind raced with images of the tall silver haired man, a crooked smile spread across his lips.

"You should probably send Joanne a text to say you won't make it for dinner tonight." Sherlock sighed into the open air, not directly to John.

"Jenny."

"Whatever" Sherlock huffed.

John snapped out of his Lestrade fuelled day-dream and scowled himself for so easily forgetting what he had been less than five minutes ago so frenzied about.

He mumbled something under his breath and took out his phone. He looked at the small screen and reeled in shock when a miniaturised envelope flashed back at him with the name of the mailer adjacent to it. He turned to his flatmate, whose eyes were glued to the road but his mouth was curled in a devilish smirk.

"How can you possible know I received a text from Lestrade?"

Sherlock turned his head slightly, eyes never leaving the road.

"I didn't. You just told me."

John sighed and turned back to the text message.

Yours or mine for this date?

How about tomorrow at 7?

I'll bring food

My treat-

GL

A breath caught in John's throat and his fingers danced lightly over the buttons.

He hummed his apprehensions under his breath and Sherlock released another exaggerated sigh from his lips.

"Yes, say yes already!"

John chuckled to himself, ten minutes ago he was late for his date with Joanne, now he was contemplating having an intimate dinner date with not only a man, but his good friend.

Another message beeped onto the screen:

How about a few sociable pints first?

Might help loosen you out.

I'll still bring food back with us.

7 at the Laughing Dog?-

GL

"I think pints would be a better idea." Sherlock responded, far from reading distance of the phone.

"Stop, stop that now!" John's lips tightened into a straight line not knowing how both men seemed to know him better than he knew himself.

A silence ensued and John's good leg became restless.

"Fine-" John caved "- I don't care how you know, but you obviously are itching to give me some advice. So, go on. Enlighten me."

Sherlock went to open his mouth but John interjected,

"And this is serious. No showing off. Straight to the point."

Sherlock visible deflated at the interjection.

"Fine-" he started. "You have yet to reply to Joanne-"

"Jenny"

"-Jenny, meaning you are not overly distraught that the date could not go ahead tonight as planned. You were simply putting on a show to make me feel guilty for being misled by the obscure traffic signs-"

"Lost, Sherlock, you got lost"

"-Fine, I got…lost" Sherlock spat the words like they were laced with venom before continuting.

"You subconsciously did notice Lestrade was wearing new aftershave and flinched when I mentioned it. You have been rubbing small circles on the spot on your arm Lestrade had held. While it is obvious that you are at best bisexual, the only thing that is striking me is that you were mentioning another man's name in your sleep. One man to another is not a long stretch."

John cocked his eyebrow. "Wait what name was I saying in my sleep?"

Sherlock shifted his weight in the chair, "Oh, I don't know, G-Greg, I think."

In the midst of his moral dilemma John Barked out a laugh, "Greg is Lestrade's first name, you Pillock."

"Awh, wee then my observations are conclusive. Don't deny you don't find him attractive"

John looked back to the driver but stayed silent.

"He is handsome, if you like tall men with broad shoulders, pearly teeth and large arms. While he does not match me deductive skills, he is rather good as a human detective and other people seem to think so too."

John slumped in his seat, brought the phone up to his face and began typing.

Sound good.

See you then-

JW

"What? No kisses?" Sherlock pouted.

John swatted at Sherlock's arm, not caring that the young man was driving.

Sherlock huffed one acknowledgment and concentrated on the road one more, leaving both men in silence. Despite his exhaustion John left his mind to wander about the details of tomorrow night, smirking every now and again and the bemusement of the situation.


	2. Until tomorrow

Lost souls inn

CH.2

The floorboards creaked as the two men limbered up the staircase, white knuckle grips on the bannister railing. Without a word, the two men entered the flat and separated, John heading for his bedroom and Sherlock, still primed with unknown fuel stores, stalked towards the window, setting himself up for a night of composing.

On a normal night, John would have intercepted Sherlock at the foot of the chair and dragged him up to his room, insisting that sleep was in fact a necessary part of biological functioning and that yes he did know what he was talking about because he was a bloody doctor.

But tonight was different. He didn't care if his housemate didn't sleep for another week. He just wanted to sleep. And that's what he did, or, tried to do anyway.

After stripping to his underpants, too tired to adorn his sleeping clothes, he slid under the heavy duvet cover and tried to lull himself to sleep. But his head buzzed with anticipation and several times he twitched violently just as sleep attempted to smother him. With every twitch came another pang of pain and another jolt down his leg, his toes curling from the discomfort.

His face contorted into a tight grimace as he tried to sooth the piercing pain. He rubbed small but hard circles into the area the pain originated and he became habituated to it after a while. From here he could relax, almost forget about the discomfort for a brief moment. He exhaled a heavy sigh which bounced from his lips in a rasp. He chuckled and turned on his side, onto the better leg.

Just as John's eyes began to flutter and his organs sank into their own sleeping patterns, he heard a buzz on the nightstand and a lifetime of unfortunate military reflexes sent another spasm of pain down his leg. He gasped as his toes once again curled outwards, the onset of a cramp settling into the arch of his foot.

"No no no no no!" John mouthed. He took three very deep breathes, holding the oxygen into his chest and exhaling for longer than he thought possible, concentrate on the feel of his lungs filling with air.

Within ten seconds, his body had relaxed and he began to breath normally again. He smiled sheepishly to himself, proud of the meditation he had taught himself while off duty.

He reached over and grabbed the phone off the night stand, straightening himself before calling the screen to life.

He pushed the small button on the side of the mobile and the screen glowed with life.

It was another envelope.

It was another envelope.

His eyes widened and his eyebrows lifted with shock.

IT WAS ANOTHER ENVELOPE.

His heart pounded in his chest and he looked frantically around the room, much to his disappointment. He half expected to see Sherlock looming over him with a smart remark and an unhelpful piece of relationship advice. But Sherlock wasn't there. He was alone. In his room. It was just him and the small white envelope and the all too familiar name.

He had studied the text messages he had received from the detective inspector several times after when himself and Sherlock were driving, but he was always met with a smirk and a snarky comment. So he stopped looking at the messages and simply thumbed the exterior of the casing in his pocket, feeling somehow closer to the sender of the messages in question.

With a cartoonish gulp he opened the message:

Can't sleep.

Thinking about tomorrow night-

GL

John's breath caught in his throat as he imagined the tall, silvery man reading out the messages, his voice curling around the letters. The soft 'a' in 'can't' and the high 'i' in 'night' made John's skin break out in bold goosebumps. He read and reread the words over and over, extrapolating hidden meanings from the words.

Maybe he was regretting it. Maybe he is too rattled with guilt to tell John he is after getting cold feet and wants to abort the whole thing, to which John would crawl under a large stone and die for an extended period of time.

Maybe it is all a cunning scheme to emotionally manipulate John and Sherlock is in on it. No one he was so pleased when Lestrade text first. It was all part of the plan.

John had almost convinced himself to climb out of the bed and confront Sherlock and his diabolical plan before the phone once again vibrated, sending a shiver up his arm.

He opened the message wearily:

Stop over-reacting.

Can't wait to finally get my hands on you,

Captain Watson-

GL

John just about stopped himself from squealing like a pre-pubescent girl at a One Direction concert. His heart pounded so hard he feared it would jump right out of its cavity.

He traced the words with his fingers and mouthed along to them, before shaking his head vigorously.

"You are a grown man, a grown heterosexual man,"

He shook his head again, remembering what Sherlock had said earlier that night.

"Ok ok maybe just a grown man. But besides, I can't get involved with a co-worker."

He mulled over that for a second. Greg was a very respectable, highly sought after detective inspector of New Scotland Yard. He wouldn't jeopardise his career over a fling.

"But what if it's not just a fling? What if he is serious?"

He stared out his bedroom window, contemplating his life with one Greg Lestrade. A two man apartment, movie nights in with popcorn and cans of beer, holidays to the seaside, an alter and a long flowing veil…

John straightened on the bed and shuffled, shaking images of him in a long white dress with ribbons in his hair out of his head.

"I need sleep" John thought before lying back in the bed and curling the duvet over his shoulders.

He suddenly remembered that he hadn't replied to the message and threw the covers back over and brought the phone back to his face.

He 'can't wait to get his hands on me'? Does he want this to get physical? And so soon? What do you do with two men? There would be so many… parts to touch and caress and stroke and lick and bite and suck and…

John felt a familiar stirring in the base of his stomach and he started to panic.

"Oh no, I'm not ready for this."

John jumped out of the bed and began to pace, the phone still in his hand.

He stood and looked at the phone, taking deep mind-clearing breaths.

"Fuck it" he though, letting his fingers work the buttons on the phone.

Can't wait either.

It'll be nice to meet outside of a grizzly crime scene.

Detective Inspector Lestrade-

JW

He hit the send button before he backed down. And then the phone flashed:

Message Sent.

He made his way back towards the bed and settled himself under the covers. He had worked himself into a tizzy over nothing. He laughed to himself, almost out loud.

The phone beeped again:

Crime scenes don't really set the mood I'm going for

But I'm sure we could work our way around that

Until tomorrow-

GL

John now eagerly tapped the buttons, once his fears had been all but dulled.

Until then-

JW

John smiled, a smile so genuine he had forgotten how good it felt, so free from social pressure or medical courtesy.

With that he tucked the covers back over him and within minutes he had dozed into a dreamless, restful sleep.


	3. Tick Tock, John

All day the waiting room of the small clinic hummed with life. John had never seen so many patients in so few hours before. One by one, men, women and children filed into the cramped office and perched themselves on the old metal-framed bed. An elder man with an ingrown toe nail, a young woman with glandular fever and a small boy with asthma had sat in succession within the last hour on top of the small rickety bed, modestly embarrassed and irritated by the 45 minute delay between calls. Prescription after prescription had been torn out of Doctor Watson's little white notebook.

John patted the young boy on the head and reached for a clear plastic tub filled with a rainbow of brightly coloured, hyperactivity inducing, sugar lollipops and leaned down, letting the boy reach in and grab a handful before running out the door.

_The great irony of the medical service, giving young children cavities-on-a-stick._

Once the door creaked closed, John looked at the sterile off-white clock hanging crookedly on the wall.

4:56 pm.

John heaved a deep sigh and smiled wearily.

_Almost there John, almost there._

He hobbled slowly across the small bland room and reached across his desk for his briefcase, assembling a relatively large bundle of papers off his desk and haphazardly shoving them into the small rectangular case, hearing the gentle tear of a page as it battled with its comrades for space in the depths of the bag.

He looked at the blank walls of the closterphobic room and made a mental note to find some colourful posters to brighten up the room. The memory of his own doctor's examination room and the almost vivid poster of a kitten balancing on the edge of a wooden fence entitled 'hang in there' flashed into his mind. He chuckled lightly at the memory and donned his navy jacket, pulling the small built-in drawstring around his middle and tying a neat bow in the front. He smiled again, satisfied with his handiwork and pulled the long strap of the case over his shoulder. He walked towards the door and firmly locked the door. He still had four minutes and with his luck another patient would wander in at 4:59 and expect a full medical examination.

If it had been any other day he would have left the door open, but not today. Today he was leaving precisely when his pay-slip said he was meant to leave. On time, on schedule. He checked his watch again.

4:58

He slumped into the chair and hummed to himself a tune he did not recognise. He couldn't remember where he heard the song but the same line and the same words kept flowing around his head, over and over, like a broken vinyl:

"_And if the night is burning  
I will cover my eyes  
For if the dark returns then  
My brothers will die" _

The words rolled over his tongue and he mulled as a familiar wave of heat warmed his cheeks. He made another mental note to find out the origins of that song.

He eyed the clock once more:

5:00 pm

_Bingo_

John bounced out of the black swivel chair, stalked across the office and unlocked the door. He walked right by the reception desk, barely calling back his farewells to Sarah with a very brief accompanying wave with the back of his hand before pushing out the glass panelled door.

The niceties could wait until later. He was far too excited to reflect on the day past and instead felt himself shaking slightly at the thoughts of the future, in particular, two short hours from now.

John had been thinking about the date all day, having miniature panic attacks and short pangs of fear between patients and detailing his potential outfits over his sandwich and tea at lunch. By the time he had downed the last drop of tea he had decided that not one item in his wardrobe was suitable for his date. Sure he had plenty of 'dating' clothes, checked shirts, cardigans, woolly jumpers, but tonight was different. He wasn't trying to impress just anyone at all. This was Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade he was dressing to impress and impress he was going to do.

Instead of heading for the tube station or the bus stop, John walked down the high street and was nearly trampled by long-legged model types waltzing diagonally from shop to shop, their suitcase-sized handbags gracelessly ploughing into John as he tried to avoid them with the skill of a retired ninja.

After ten minutes of wrestling his way through the crowd of fake hair extensions and mascara, he stepped inside the door of a small men's clothing shop.

"Ralph", John called the small narrow passage behind the abandoned till. He heard an awkward shuffling and the sound of glass breaking through the back of the shop.

"Can it be? John, my dear friend. How have you been? It's been a long time since I've seen you here." An elderly man with snow-white hair peered from around the corner, his thick glasses resting heavily on the bridge of his wide nose.

"I've been busy Ralph, you know, saving lives and whatnot", John grinned cheekily to the older man and they both burst into a wave of uncontrollable laughter.

"No wonder business has been so bad. You keep killing them all!" The older man tilted the glassed with his index finger and wiped away a stray tear with his thumb.

"Funny, you're being funny again, doesn't suit you" John swerved as the elderly man swatted at his head, dodging by mere inches.

"In all seriousness-" John continued, "- I have an important date tonight and I need a new shirt"

"Oooh, you hear that?" Ralph said to no one in particular "-an _important _date none-the-less."

Ralph turned on his heel and guided John to the back of the shop and began rummaging through a large dishevelled pile of packaged shirts.

"Business might do you better if you bothered to show your customers what you were selling, Ralph." John poked around through the pile alongside the shop owner.

"Oh, I like this one" John exclaimed holding up a blue shirt with black checkers.

"No-" Ralph grabbed the package and threw it into the mass of plastic. "-no checks. How about this?" The man held up a deep maroon shirt with small black polka-dots.

"That's a bit young for me", John curled his lips weary of the very untypically 'Johnness' about the shirt in question.

"Not at all, dear boy, you don't look a day over 55." John made a swatting motion to the older man and then walked towards the front of the cluttered shop, examining the shirt in the small band of natural light streaming in through the window.

"It's not bad, I suppose."

John imagined it on himself and fanaticised about how Lestrade's face would glow with admiration of him in this new, young man shirt. His fingers absent-mindedly played with the plastic covering.

"I'll take it." John exclaimed, throwing it on the counter.

"What? You're not going to try it on?" Ralph looked strangely at the doctor.

"Well if you installed a better system of changing room instead of a flap of cardboard I might have considered it, and besides my measurements are still the same."

Ralph brought his lips into a purse and raised his eyebrows dramatically. "Are you sure? You look as if you've been enjoying a few more pork pies than usual"

John choked on another burst of laughter before putting his money on the counter and headed for the door, helping himself to a paper bag on the way out, not bothering to wait for his change.

"I'll see you soon, Ralph", John called back already half-way out the door.

"He's a lucky man, whoever he is. Have a good night" the elderly man called after him.

John paused in the door and looked back to the man, a perplexed look on his own face. Ralph simply winked his acknowledgment and headed to the back of the shop once more, leaving John to wonder how long everyone else around him knew about his sexuality before he did.

Twenty minutes later, John was back at the flat and 40 minutes after that he was washed, shaved and looking at the outfit he had laid out on the bed for himself. The haze in the room was near tangible with aftershave as John doused him with his favourite _Hugo Boss. _He looked at the new shirt, the creased all ironed out and a pair of black jeans he had forgotten he owned laid in a human-like manner on the bed. He hummed and reached for the handle of his wardrobe, second guessing the vibrancy of the shirt. He almost chickened out, twice, with a plain blue shirt in his hand, before he threw it back into the press and dressed from the bed.

He eyed his watch and his heart jumped. Just over half an hour before he was to meet Lestrade.

John resisted the urge to stand on his toes and fan himself dramatically with his hands like the leading lady in one of those chic-flic movies he had denied watching with several ex-girlfriends before.

In the midst of his girly panic he heard the buzz of hard plastic against wood as his phone danced on the bed side locker.

Another white envelope appeared on the screen.

Tick Tock

Captain

Tick Tock-

GL

John looked around the room quickly before bunching his hands into fists and shaking them up and down triumphantly. He ceased quickly and composed himself, mostly, when he heard the sound of foot fall down the hall.

He quickly grabbed his jacket and scarf, throwing open the door and marching right past his housemate, checking for his essentials before leaping down the staircase.

"Have a fun-filled night, John-" Sherlock called after him "- Bring him back here tonight, I do enjoy a show"

"Piss off, arsehole" John yelled from the bottom of the staircase before heading out the front door.

John got to the pub in record time and found himself idle, scanning the room for the all too familiar face. After a few minutes of awkward loitering at the door he made his way to the bar, perching himself up on a stool. He ordered a pint and took three large gulps when it slide across the slippery surface towards him.

"Nice to see you've started without me." A deep voice cooed behind John's right ear, so close he could feel the breath of the words in the shell of his ear, sending a tidal wave of goosebumps down his body.

John turn and was surprised to see how close the taller man was standing to him, although he knew it had been quite close already.

Greg Lestrade was glowing, his naturally sallow skin somehow darker and glistening in the pale light of the pub. His eyes were wide and staring deeply into John's, a cheeky grin spread across his lips.

Greg made no mystery of admiring the man before him, taking in every detail of his body, once they finally managed to break eye contact.

"I've set up over in that corner there if you fancy it?" Greg spoke, a little more gently this time. Could John detect a bit of nervousness in his voice?

John smiled warmly and replied, "Of course, lead the way". Greg smiled in return and guided the smaller man towards a small two man table in the darkest corner of the bar. Two tall candle sticks sat in the centre of the table, wax dripping and pooling at the base of the holder. Distinct fingerprints and been pressed into the now hardened wax and small white flecks of dried wax were scattered in front of the space Lestrade had returned to.

John chuckled at the mess the other man had made.

"Nervous were we?" John remarked, pointing at the remains of wax in front of Lestrade.

Greg shifted slightly in his seat, a sheepish smile playing across his lips.

"Maybe, just a bit-" But just then his eyes widened and shot up to meet John's "-N-not that I'm regretting this. It's just, well, I'm not, emm, used so much to… this" he made a vague gesture with his hand between the two men and John smiled.

"Me neither, to be honest. Didn't know what to expect" John reached his hand up to his head and combed his fingers through his hair lightly to occupy himself briefly.

Greg looked at John with a puzzled expression on his face.

"But-", he paused for a second, turning the next sentence in his head a few times, "-You and Sher-"

John held up his hands, politely interrupting Greg's last words. "Me and Sherlock never went out. We don't, and never have had romantic interest in each other. You shouldn't believe what the internet says." He chuckled the last bit, hoping it wasn't as off-putting as it had sounded in his own ears.

Greg smiled wider than ever, like the news of the Second Coming was happening on a Saturday, down in his local pub and they were all going for pints and a few bags of Bacon Fries to celebrate.

"So I have nothing to worry about with our favourite psycho- I mean sociopath" Greg brought his pint up and took a deep pull, hiding the outline of a blush rising in his cheeks.

"Well apart from his usual antics, nothing else like that to worry about."

Greg licked the foam from his drink off his lips and John followed the tongue as it disappeared back into the chasm of his mouth.

"So everything's… fine" he asked.

"Everything's fine" John replied reassuringly.

Greg's mouth set into a very pleasurable smile and John couldn't help but smile along.

The rest of the evening went very smoothly. They sat for a few hours, chatting like old friends who had met in a different life. They rehashed particularly intelligent cases and John smirked as Greg would pump his chest out when he described the heroic feats he performed in such cases, arms waving in large wandering gestures. While Greg was engrossed in replaying one particularly frightful scene to his one man audience, John took the opportunity to truly admire the man beside him. He was donned in a tight black shirt, rolled up to the elbows with matching black trousers that showed off the definition in his arms and his slender thighs.

"Admiring the view?" Greg snapped John out of his day-dream and he realised that he had been staring at the other man's crotch for some time. The blood from ever orifice of his body rushed towards his face and he opened his mouth, with no such luck that words would form.

Greg laughed and patted John's own leg. "It's a bit early in the night for that, don't you think?" He winked and slide his hand painfully close to his own groin. John could feel the panic once again built up in his chest and in the pit of his stomach. His eyes wide with worry.

"Don't worry, dear. We're as inexperienced as each other it would seem so there is no need to worry." Greg slid his hand back onto his own lap, least he should give his date a heart attack.

The rest of the night passed without instance, apart from the very casually performed squeeze Greg had administered to John's left butt cheek in the waiting area for the Chinese, to which John yelped just as the small Asian man arrived out with their bag of food.

They stumbled back to John's flat, since it happened to be closer to the pub than Greg's apartment.

"Well, this is me", John sighed, definitely a line from a movie he must have once seen. Not one of his own creation anyway.

"As if I could possibly forget this place" Greg laughed, a deep carefree laugh. The sort you make when watching good comedy films on your own. John reached into his pocket and rooted in what felt like Mary Poppins bag for his keys. He sniggered as he tried to balance himself against the railing but misjudged the distance by a few inches. The misjudgement sent him falling towards the side, only to be caught my two strong toned arms around the middle.

Both men laughed and the smell of alcohol filled the short space between them.

"Are you alright?" Greg spoke, barely above a whisper, slowly leaning in closer to the fallen man.

"Oh, never better" John panted, his eyes lids heavy and his lips twitching with anticipation.

They stood in silence for a second gliding their faces past each other, millimetres from each other's lips.

"M-may I?" Greg whispered now.

"Oh God yes"

And with that the two men pressed their lips into each other and hungrily devoured each other's mouths. They stood in the cold of winter nipping and sucking at the warm flesh, each tasting the alcohol laced in the others mouth. Their tongues lapped at each other in a frenzied sequence. Grunts and puffs of breath escaped their lips as they parted briefly. John had his hands clamped on either side of Greg's face and Greg had his hands dangerously close to John's bottom, hovering just beside his hips, his thumbs entwined in the belt loops of his jeans.

Greg yanked at the fabric and drew in close to John's lips once more, making the smaller man jolt and they both panted,

"These have to go."

John rubbed his hands through the detectives hair before taking a firm but painless hold of it on both sides, "Aye, aye sir."

Greg smirked again, "Aye, aye Captian."

Greg ran his nose into John's clavicle and began to nip at the delicate skin. A soft moan escaped John's lips and Greg stilled, bringing his face up to look into John's eyes.

"That was possibly they most erotic sound I have ever heard someone make", His eyes wide with lingering and arousal.

"Well, let's get inside and I might made a few more sounds like it-", John grabbed the now accessible key and unlocked the door, "-but only if you're good", he winked and swung open the door.

Greg grabbed a handful of John's ass in both hands and cooed in his ear lustfully,

"Oh, with an ass like that, how could I be good?", before he crushed his lips into John's sloppily.

They broke apart for a second, retrieved the food off the ground and clambered up the narrow stairs, shutting the door behind them.


	4. Dear John

The front door of 221B Baker Street slammed shut and the two moderately intoxicated men shambolically clambered through the door, one distracted step at a time. The smell of alcohol was much more poignant in the close confines of the hallway and the dull buzz of late night traffic zoomed by the window, casting shadows and lights up the jagged staircase.

Their bodies slammed against the door as Greg ferociously devoured John's mouth, taking hold of his lips between his teeth and nipping at the reddened skin. John threaded his fingers through the short silver hair of the other man and massaged small circles with his fingertips, eliciting a small, barely audible moan from him. They parted lips and Greg sloppily kissed his way over to John's ear and licked up the length of the rim before delving his tongue into the shell over and over.

"Ooooooh God." John whimpered into the empty air, his eyes fluttering. He shifted his stance against the wall, readjusting to accommodate the growing bulge in his pants that was getting tighter and tighter with every caress off the taller man's wandering hands.

"We need to get upstairs, don't want Mrs Hudson to catch us. She already thinks I'm banging Sherlock." John joked, gently pushing Greg from his chest.

"Well isn't that a wonderful image for her to have. I might just use that image myself. Oh, the things you would do to each other, dirty dirty John." Greg smirked devilishly and took one quick hard kiss from John's lips.

John's heart leaped and his semi-hardness went entirely rigid in his jeans in the darkness of the hall. John grabbed Greg's hand and began to drag his slightly wavering body up the staircase.

Less than half way up the staircase, Greg stilled and his hand dropped from John's. He gasped inaudibly as the strained pale beams of white light fell across John Watson's face as a flurry of cars passed by the window below. The taxi headlamp's rays sculpted the older man's face into pale peaks and furrows of darkness, carving out the delicate creases around his eyes and forehead, adding for just a moment mystery and ferocity to the usual tenderness of his features.

Greg felt his chest tighten at the image before him. The older man now seemed taller than he had ever imagined before. John's chest was heaving deeply and his arms stretched between both walls of the stairwell, supporting his drunken unsteadiness. His arms were thick and firm with the fading strength of an ex-military commander and they bulged beneath his very tight maroon shirt. John had transformed into something beautiful and awe-some and Greg very quickly batted away the weak tears that had peaked on his lids.

John Watson stared back at the younger man following close behind him, their feet colliding as he tried to guide himself towards the flat. He came to a stop when the sound of steps ceased form behind him.

He turned around and was blinded by the lights of passing cars streaming through the glass-panelled door. John had never seen Greg look so… so… serene?

John blinked, his eyes not synchronized with one another, and stared at the man below him.

"Is, is everything ok?" John leaned down to Greg and brushed his lips to the hot skin of the younger man's forehead that was now slightly moist from the entanglement a few minutes before.

Greg broke the gaze and settled his eyes on John's lips, "Perfect, John. Everything's… perfect." And once again the men crashed into each other's mouths, their lips intertwined and fitting between one another, like perfectly fitting jigsaw pieces.

They broke away and John started to climb the stairs again. He turned and saw that once again Greg hadn't moved. John grinned and the gleam of his teeth sparkled in the darkness. "You coming up or what, bad boy?" he said, breaking the sobering mood of delicate intimacy.

Greg chuckled and the sensuality returned ten-fold. He could feel saliva pool in the space beneath his tongue and teeth and he gulped down quickly at the thoughts of the man before him in very compromising positions.

Greg climbed up another step urging the smaller man up the stairs and into the flat.

"Mmmmmmmh," Greg moaned in response, grabbing a tight hold of John's thighs, "God, you are just too good for me, boy" just before returning to attack the small bruising spot along the smooth length of John's neck.

The men's feet knocked each step as they climbed the stairs, nearly tumbling several times, but managing to remain upright and they pushed their way through the door. The heat of the room hit them first and Greg dropped the bag of food to the floor, never breaking contact. Rather, Greg twisted John's smaller frame around and pinned him to the back of the door they had just entered.

Both men moaned into each other's mouths and John gasped breathlessly as Greg slipped the open palm of his hand down the front of John's body and gently, but firmly cupped his clothed erection. Greg smirked into John's lips as he began to rub short lengths up and down the concealed member.

"Awwwwwwgh" A high pitched breathless pant escaped John's mouth. He reached down and dug his nails into the flesh of Greg's lower back, causing the younger man to blow hot air out from his lips onto the side of John's neck.

"God, I don't know how long I can last, John. You are just too damn sexy for me." Greg gasped, nearly out of breath.

"Oh the contrary, John it would seem is the adequate amount of 'sexy' for your taste, Detective Inspector."

The men at the door jolted upright, spreading themselves instinctively away from each other at the interjection of the familiar voice.

"Sherlock, for Christ's sake, what are you doing here?" John felt his face filling with heat as the last of the effects of the alcohol wore off.

"Apart from the fact you are well aware of that I live here and I am entitled to be wherever I so please to be, right now I am performing a social experiment, _dear_ Watson." Sherlock made that particular word stand out from the sentence and watched Greg with eagle eyes, burrowing holes into the silver-haired man.

With Sherlock's penetrative gaze on his face, Greg began to pace back and forth between his lovers chair and the man himself. With each step that brought him closer to John, Greg caught his hands behind his back, physically restraining himself from entwining his arms around the shorter man's shoulders.

"What do you think you're playing at, Sherlock, hanging around like a pervert waiting for us to come home?" Greg finally spoke, now only inches from his date and his open hand. Greg tried so hard to resist the temptation to swiftly lace his fingers into John's.

"Proving a point, it would seem." He smirked again.

"And what point might that be, eh?" Greg replied as John cupped his face in his hands beside him.

"No, no Sherlock, not tonight!" John suddenly interjected.

"What, what is it?" Greg turned to John inquisitively.

Sherlock curled his lips behind his hands.

"He's going to deduce us." The words hadn't left John's mouth before Sherlock began his monologue.

"Greg, when you text John about tonight you were confident in the fact that he would respond positively to your innuendos, knowing right well that John is most certainly not the romanticized heterosexual he so lets on to be. However you have just been released from a long term marriage, to a woman no doubt, and you were naturally nervous about the prospects of engaging in sexual relations with another man. As is customary with heterosexual relationships, as ye are both used to, you presumed pints and a bit of doorstep snogging would be the full extent of tonight. But John called your bluff. As assured of yourself as you may be you had not planned tonight to end like this. You have no condoms nor lubricant on your person and it would be common for a man on a date to see that if it really was to happen tonight, that you had presumed, as most do people do, that myself and John had, at some stage, been engaged in sexual affairs in the past and thus presumed that, if you were to be so lucky, that John would have the tools required for a night of feverish sexual activities. Despite what you think about John's sexual history, he has never had sex with a man before.

But something is different about this situation. It's not about getting your leg over, you would have hauled John into the bathroom if you just wanted to unload yourself but no, you are here, before me now. This is different and therefore more personal than I thought initially. You like John, a lot, and your feelings have escalated very quickly and keep getting stronger and stronger the more time you spend around our _dear_ John.

You do like John and you _do_ want to have sex with him, but not tonight, not like this. You respect him too much to just fuck him on the first date. You were testing to see how far John would let you go just before I interrupted you a moment ago and to your surprise John is very much attached to you in the same way. This is obvious because he is an ex-army commander and a doctor, well used to seeing death and ruin and not a heart you can just toy with before throwing away. John trusts you, very much, otherwise you would not have gotten so far there now. That is why I decided to experiment.

The final and most crucial piece of evidence is when I call John _dear_. You were visibly agitated by the idea of myself and John being intimate by pacing back and forth, even though you know he and I have never been intimate. Thus finally concluding the extent to which you care for and admire Captain John Watsons of the 5th Northumberland fusiliers."

Silence.

The room buzzed with tangible silence.

Greg was white, like a ghost, a shell of a man. John's mouth was gaping open and his eyes wide.

"I-" Greg started, "-better go."

He made his way towards the door not making eye contact with either man.

John grabbed Greg's arm and pulled him in to his chest. The stared at each other, their dejection very apparent on both of their faces. But John wouldn't give in to this, not for Sherlock, not for anyone, and he pulled Greg into a deep heart-warming kiss. They parted and smiled weakly.

"Call me tomorrow" John whispered into Greg's ear.

Greg nodded his response and left the room.

Silence fell once more.

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but one look from the ex-soldier screwed his lips shut.

His eyes were full of loathing, like Sherlock was the most horrid, most repulsive person he had ever laid eyes on.

And with that John walked wordlessly from the room and down to his own bedroom, leaving Sherlock in the silence of his own disgrace.


	5. The Sound of Silence

Sherlock awoke to a whirling commotion of sounds attacking him from every direction. High-pitched bleeps from unsynchronised delivery trucks and the whirlwind of lunch-hour traffic pierced his ear drums like pins to a tightly inflated balloon, and reverberated around his bedroom, reflecting off every surface to heighten its intensity. Sherlock went to move his body but found himself heavy and limp. He turned to the window and the streaming sun blinded him causing his head to flood with pain and he crushed his eyes together to numb it.

He huffed, and huffed again and painfully swung his body towards the edge of the bed and his legs onto the floor. He wobbled on heavy feat as his body tried to regain its centre of gravity. Once the noise of the outside world died out of his head he because more aware of his surroundings. The sequenced buzz of his phone vibrating on his bedside locker sent a jolt through his head once more.

"God, I hate mornings." The tall lanky man grumbled to himself before reaching for the small buzzing item. He answered it without even checking the Caller ID.

"Yes, yes, what do you want?" he generalised, jumping straight past the civilities of regular conversation. Regardless of who was on the other side of the phone, whether it was John, Lestrade, Mycroft or even his own parents, this would be the typical response they were used to receiving from the one and only insufferable Sherlock Holmes.

"Freak, we have a case for you." A female voice barked down the phone at him.

"Donovan? What are you doing calling me? Why do you have this number?" Sherlock looked genuinely confused at the object in his hand, like a caveman holding a sonic screwdriver.

"Don't think so highly of yourself, come down to the West Bridge Park ASAP." Sherlock heard from the phone and then the line died on the other end of the call.

Sherlock glanced around the room and noticed the clock. _2:25pm. _Sherlock wondered why Donovan had called him so early, and also, now that he was thinking, why was _Donovan_ the one to ring? Why wasn't Gareth ringing him about a case?

Sherlock pulled his eyebrows together in thought and then a wave of relief washed over him.

"Oh-" he cooed gently to himself, "- He cannot honestly be so petty as to get Donovan make his calls because I showed him up last night?" 

Sherlock walked to the door and bellowed, "JOHN, YOUR BOYFRIEND'S GETTING DONOVAN TO TEXT ME ABOUT CASES NOW!"

Silence.

"John?"

More silence.

Sherlock emerged from the room and knocked on John's bedroom door. The door swung open and a small white piece of paper jaggedly torn form a refill pad stared at him from the military folded covers.

Sherlock stalked across the room and spied the note.

_Staying in Greg's for a few days_

_Use that wonderful brain to figure out why._

Sherlock traced the letters, all blotted and smudged on the page. The words were angry. No, not angry, furious. Sherlock could picture John writing, his body hunched over the desk, pen clasped firmly in his white knuckle grip and the nib of the pen nearly ripping the page from the force of writing.

Sherlock picked up the phone and hit 'redial'. John's name loomed on the screen and the call internally connected.

_The number you dialled is unavailable. Please leave a message after the tone… beeeeeep._

Sherlock stared down at the phone once more and small trickles of guilt started to wash over him. In the time that he has known John, he has never been confronted with the older man's voicemail. John had never turned off his phone to Sherlock. Never. Even in the small hours of the morning to stand over water-clogged, swollen and rancid body parts on the banks of the river Thames in the freezing cold. John never refused Sherlock anything and now he won't even answer his calls. Sherlock scanned John's bedroom. The typically categorically coordinated room was askew with various article of clothing. Shirts, jeans and socks were thrown haphazardly around the small box room.

Sherlock mulled over the situation and replayed the scenario in his head. Sherlock was standing at the door facing into the room. He followed the most logical line of thought process.

_John walked into his bedroom and slammed the door, causing the windowpane to shudder from the force. He curled his fingers into his hair and gives in a sharp, painful tug, enough to cause him to stop himself from wreaking havoc in his own bedroom._

Sherlock walks over to the open wardrobe and his heart sinks. John's cable knit jumper lies at the bottom of the wardrobe, knotted around itself.

_John untangles his hands from his hair and exhales a deep anguish filled breath from his lungs. He paces back and forth in small manic circles, his eyes open but unseeing. His hands bunch by his sides and before he can stop himself he grabs the first thing he can find. His favourite jumper. The jumper Sherlock teases him about the most, once describing John as having 'a worse sense of fashion than Leatherface'. He opens out the arms and loops them in on one another and pulls a tight knot into it. The tight knit of the material doesn't give so John knows he's not destroying it. He twists the sleeves again and grunts as he pulls the second knot tither and tighter, tears pricking his eyes. _

Sherlock reaches down and picks up the heavy garment with the same delicacy he devotes to his microscope and slides before untangling it. He strokes the collar and brings it up to his face, taking a deep breath through his nose. It still smells like him: soap and aftershave, detergent and the earthy musk of the doctor. He pulls the jumper into his chest with endearing delicacy and glances around the room once more. He walks over to John's writing desk and spots the remains of draft notes bunched into balls.

_John throws the garment into the bottom of the wardrobe and cradles his face in his hands, supressing a scream building up in the pit of his chest. But he resists. "I am better than this." He whispers to the empty room. He stalks towards his writing desk and pulls a note pad and pen out of his briefcase. He begins writing but stops. _

_ Staying in…_

_He thinks, screwing his eyes shut and taking deep breaths, trying to loosen the thousands of knots in his shoulders and back. The scar of his military wound stabs him with a blinding pain and he jolts. After mulling over the paper for a few seconds and massaging small circles into the pain, he writes;_

_ Staying in Harry's. _

_He reflects on this. Does he really want to stay with Harry? He bunches up the paper and throws it aside before starting again._

_ Staying in a hotel._

_ Don't look for me._

_John takes a deep breath and sighs before once more bunching up the paper. He realises that since his flatmate may never truly understand empathy this could become a very expensive falling-out. Once again he starts to write, thinking very carefully about the words he uses. He exhales and loosens his grip on the pen before writing;_

_ Staying in Greg's for a few days_

_Use that wonderful brain to figure out why._

_You arrogant dickhead._

_John looks once more at the note before ripping the last line off the page and placing the remaining two lines on the bed. He reaches for a duffle bag tucked under his bed and begins throwing random articles of clothing into the bag. He stands up and sighs again looking at the mess he has made. But he doesn't care. He is too far from caring about his room, or about anything. Sherlock, his flatmate, his best friend. _

"_How could he do this to me" John's eyes pinches in distress before he rubs his hands down the length of his face. The image of Sherlock in John's head makes him want to vomit from annoyance and infuriation. He shakes away the sensation and climbs on top of his bed, waiting for his flatmate to adjourn to his own quarters. _

_An hour and four minutes later John hears Sherlock's large feet pound towards his own bedroom and with that John exist his room and turns off the lights. _

Sherlock examines the torn segment of paper in his hand;

_ You arrogant dickhead_

He traces the words with his eyes as tears glide in rivers down his drained cheeks.


	6. An Unexpected Visitor

Greg Lestrade sat nursing a large scotch in front of the television. Lights and sounds and images flash back at him from the box but he doesn't care to absorb them. His mind races with streams of interrelated thoughts spanning across his mind like an intricate web. He takes a large gulp and hisses as the liquid burns its way down his throat, pooling in the fiery chasm of his belly.

'_John likes me just as much as I like him.'_

Greg smirks and swirls the ice around in his glass. But his mouth curls downward and his eyes droop at the last fading image of John before he left the house. They had embraced and Greg's heart still leaps remembering it. The tender softness of his lips and the gentleness of his hands around him. Greg signs and takes another mouthful.

'_Sherlock_.'

Greg instinctually bears his teeth in an animalistic snarl at the name.

'_How dare he do that to John, to me? His friends? Does he not want John to be happy? What sort of human being would do that, would wanna get a kick out of dragging everything out. Oh, but wait, he's not human is he?'_

Greg huffed and tried to clear his head. He brought his eyes to the screen and his brows furrowed as a tall, lanky man in a tweed jacket and a bowtie ran back into a blue police box followed by a redhead girl and a bewildered looking man. 

After twenty minutes of watching the strangely addictive show Greg heard a knock on his front door. He grunted and pulled himself out of the seat.

'_Who the hell is calling at this time? It better not be Donovan with a case'_

Greg made his way down the dark corridor and flick on the outside light.

"Donovan, if this is about a case I'm not looking at it until the mor…"

Greg stopped on opening the door to the sight of his own John Watson. They stood for a few moments in acknowledging silence. Greg spied the duffle bag and smiled. John smiled weakly back before walking slowly into Greg's open arms. John dropped the bag and choked down tears. Greg wrapped his arms around the smaller man and could see the light glisten off John's wet cheeks. They stood hugging in the porch for what felt like a lifetime and Greg realised that he wouldn't mind spending the rest of the night wrapped in John's embrace. He smiled against the smaller man's head.

"I'm s-sorry to impose. This has become a lousy first date." John shuddered in Greg's arms and loosened his grip around the taller man. They parted fractionally and Greg simply wiped a stray tear from John's cheek and grinned.

"You're always welcome here and besides, this date is not over yet."

Both men smirked before entering the apartment.

Greg rushed ahead of John slightly, remember than he wasn't expecting company and the living room reflected it. John laughed as the silver-haired man danced around the living area grabbing items of kitchenware and throwing them haphazardly into the dishwasher. Greg gasped and tucked a basket full of freshly washed underwear into the cupboard under the sink and John laughed heartily deep in his chest as the basket toppled over and the articles spilled out on the kitchen floor.

"Bugger", Greg exclaimed looking down at the mess of clothes. Long arms entwined around his waist and his hands made their way up his chest.

Greg hummed into the empty air before him at the feel of the small man behind him pressed into his back.

"Leave them-", John cooed, "-I can think of other things you can do with those wonderful hands of yours."

Greg smirked and turned to face John, who was smirking just as wickedly back at him.

"Oh, and what might that be?" Greg brought his hands up and placed them on John's shoulders and began kneading small circles into them.

"Oooh" John purred, swaying back and forth to the motion of Greg's hands.

"I'm feeling a bit stressedtonight, maybe you could _loosen me out?" _Greg recognised his own words in the text he had sent John whilst lying in bed after the case with the American runaway.

"Oh I am very skilled with these hands", Greg responded and cupped his hands over John's tight ass cheeks, giving them a tight squeeze before capturing the smaller man's lips with his own mouth.

They stood lapping their lips together in an increasingly heated frenzy. John took the liberty of peaking his tongue into the space between Greg's lips and the taller man moaned, sending vibrations through their lips.

Greg pulled John in further to his body and traced his lips along John's clavicle. John moaned and Greg grinned once more.

"Oh I do love those noises." Before gently nipping at the flesh.

"Well let's go make some more noises, Sir"

The command made Greg twitch and he could feel a tightness growing in his trousers. He rubbed his clothes erection against John's stomach and the ex-soldier growled before grasping it in his fist.

Greg choked and wordlessly guided John to his bedroom. They clambered through the door and threw themselves onto the bed in a tangle of limbs. John broke the embrace and grimaced while reaching under his body pinned to the bed. He pulled out a pair of metal handcuffs and his face erupted in a devilish smirk.

"It's a bit early for these don't you think, Sir?" Greg shivered once more and laughed.

"You're right, we've got all night yet."

John laughed but his lips with caught between the detectives once more.

In an instant Greg had John's shirt unbuttoned and on his front.

"It's such a lovely shirt, John. You must really have been out to impress tonight." Greg smirked at John, who muffle something inaudible in return.

Before John had a chance to ask what was going on behind him, Greg had his knees on either side of John's body and was sitting just below John's ass, his own erection physically pressing into John.

Greg began to knead at the skin on John's shoulders, feeling the built-up tightness of years of military service.

"Oh, you're feeling a bit tense. Let me help you with that." Greg spoke before leaning into John's back and sucking along his spine, lapping wet kisses, nibbling and tenderly sucking the skin. Greg's lips made their way up Johns back and spotted the horrible gnarled skin of John's shoulder scar, but ignored it entirely. It didn't matter.

"You're perfect", Greg whispered under his breath and froze when he heard it coming from his lips.

John laughed into the bed sheet before flipping himself over and taking Greg's lips between his own.

"Now look who's out to impress", John smirked into his lips.

Greg separated and began kissing a wet path down John's bare chest before reaching the line of his jeans.

"Now these definitely have to go." Greg spoke before swiftly undoing the belt and pulling the jeans and underpants below John's knees in one swift motion.

John's member bounced free from the clothed prison and stood rigid. Greg admired the long member before him. It was bigger than he had imagined it would be, with a dark blue vein running underneath from base to tip.

John was breathing heavily and looking down at Greg. He wanted to make a smart remark about the way Greg was looking at his penis, but he resisted, not wanted to ruin the moment. It was all just too perfect. He was aching to be touched and Greg could see it in the way his member twitched at contact with Greg's cool breath.

"P-please-", John begged, "-please touch me."

Greg grinned and in once swift motion sucked John into his mouth. He had never given a blow job before but there was a time and a place for everything, and this was both.

Greg bobbed his head up and down in long motions swallowing as much of the other man in his unaccustomed mouth. It was much better than he had ever imagined yet he didn't know he would ever be able to do it to anyone other than John, and that made him smile. He grabbed the base of the shaft that wasn't encumbered by his mouth and they began working in unison. On every upward stroke Greg would flick his tongue over the tip and tongue the slit, sending a shiver down John's spine.

The older man moaned the most beautiful noises Greg ever heard, getting faster and faster the harder and harder Greg would pump.

One, two more pumps and John exhaled a long, deep groan into the air and spurts of hot liquid shot into Greg's open mouth. Greg held the liquid in his mouth for a second, expecting a taste. But the horrendous taste never came, in fact no taste came at all, so he swallowed the millions of little John's in one gulp.

John laughed at the motions Greg was making and pulled the taller man up onto his chest. John kissed the side of Greg's face and pawed down the length of Greg's body.

Greg grabbed John's hand and smirked. "Still plenty of time for that, love." And John smirked.

Greg rolled onto his side and pulled the covers over himself and John, undressing them both fully before settling into John's open arms.

"It'll be a good morning for you so" John smirk and playfully pinched Greg's ass cheek.

They both smiled and fell almost instantly into the best sleep they both had for years.


	7. Wakey wakey

The crisp air of the frosty winter morning traced delicate patterns across the window panes visible from the open curtains, like icy stain-glass murals in Christian church windows. John Watson's body woke up before the rest of him could manage to move. He could hear the sound of traffic a great distance from the room, which was peculiar to the doctor because his morning routine usual consisted of smothering himself with a pillow to drown out the sound of delivery trucks from the unearthly hour of 5:30am.

Keeping his eyes closed, John swung his body from his back, where he had been facing the ceiling and the edge of streaming morning light, to his right and became encumbered by the dark heat of companionship. John snuggled dopey-eyed into the body beside him, throwing his left arm around the warm mound and entwining his left leg between the two solitary calves attached to the warm mass.

John moaned into the heat and tightened his grip on the form before him. It was big, much bigger than he was.

'_It's like having my own life-size microwavable teddy-bear',_ he sniggered to himself and smirked into the skin of the human-sized teddy-bear's back. He rubbed his hand up and down the front of the mass of heat and felt it to be smooth and taut in ripples of compressed muscle, and not fluffy as he had expected it to be in his lucid, half-conscious state.

"_You've been working out, mr teddy-bear', _John thought to himself, his face too relaxed to flinch with expression. John's hand wandered down below the tight muscles and his palm stroked over a long cylindrical mass of very hot rigid flesh.

John's eyes snapped open and his hand instinctively tightened around the thick hot object beyond his control, before releasing it and hovering it in place inches from the flesh.

'_You're not a teddy-bear!'_

When John's eyes adjusted to the morning light, all he could see was the soft skin of a broad semi-tanned back, etched in a lifetime of miniature scars and stretched muscles, moving in and out in slow cyclic rhythms.

He scooted back from the naked man as far as he could, supressing the urge to shout out like a raging fangirl who woke up next to her idol. His eyes wide with surprise and his mouth flapped open and closed, striking an almost identical resemblance to Beaker from The Muppets.

He looked up and down at the man sprawled out on the bed to his right. The man before him was glowing, or maybe it was so vivid in contrast to the sparkling whiteness of the sheets he lay on. John examined his own pale, pasty arm in contrast to the man who had said arm pinned to the bed.

He realised with a short flash of panic that he could no longer feel the digits attached to that particular arm. He signed and mourned the loss of his little fingers temporarily before further observing the striking contrast between the skin of his own arm and the back pinning it. His years in Afghanistan seemed to have done him no use in the tanning department and he could almost see the blue veins pop out of his arm to further emphasis it.

_This is what Sherlock must feel like all the time. _And with that a vivid memory flashed into the front of John's mind. Black hair, white bony face and black marble eyes like death glaring down at him, a contorted smile drawn across his stretched features, like a fleshy hollow veil.

John took a sharp inhale from the shock of the image and he began to choke on the air. He spluttered away from the man before him and pulled his free hand from around the man's waist, not even daring to try free his dead right hand from its fleshy prison. He laughed at the thought of trying to cover his mouth with his dead hand and repeatedly smacking himself in the face with his own limp, lifeless hand, which of course only spurred more coughing.

After two minutes of holding onto his breathy coughs in his throat, waiting for the tickling sensation to leave him, he signed, feeling the blood retreat from his face and return to the rest of his body.

He lay on his back with his left leg still trapped awkwardly between the detective inspectors calves and contemplated his next move, like a strategic game of limb-chess. He had no concept of time or space in the great time vortex since the alarm clock stood short on the bedside table on the far side of Greg's massive shoulders. As it stood he had numerous options.

He could awkward try and manoeuvre himself over Greg and potentially wake up the sleeping giant mass of heat and sex.

…

'_Fuck it', _John thought to himself before collapsing into the space he had slid himself into before, enveloping the two men with the thick duvet and entwining is left arm around the bigger man in a tight, comfortable bear hug. He let his hand fall to the mattress and found a fleshy pad with lifeless fingers sticking out of it lying on the mattress.

"_There you are little hand," _John snorted and rubbed his cold isolated hand with his warm one.

John tucked himself into the heat of the man before him and his eyelids grew heavy with sleep.

Just as he was about to doze off once more, his whole body began to shake. He looked up questioningly and saw that the mountain he lay upon was shaking vigorously in small disjointed waves.

"Oh, no-" John sighed, "-you've been awake the whole time, haven't you?"

And with that the mountain exploded into a fit of uncontrollable laughter and snorting.

John tried to release himself from Greg and the younger man obliged, lifting himself off the bed and separating his legs minutely. John withdrew from the laughing man who had proceeded to turn to face the sulking doctor.

"That was not funny. I was seriously choking and you just lay there!"

Greg wiped away a tear from his eyes and brought his hand up and began rubbing large circles across the fine hairs of John's chest.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, are you ok?" Greg sighed, trying to calm down his breathing.

"I am, thank you very much for your concern." A mock pout played on Johns lips, but as Greg shifted closer to the older man, a deep must of body heat wafted into his nostrils, sending a dull wholesome shudder through his body. A small grim crept onto this lips and he turned to face Greg, his face lit up in a wide, toothy smile. John's heart skipped a beat and he reached his hands up go cup Greg, closing the inches between their lips.

Greg tasted faintly of morning breath and the remains of scotch lingered on his tongue. Greg tilted his head and enveloped John's lips with his own. They both moaned and deepened the kiss, tucking their bodies into one another. Greg lowered his hand from John's chest and trailed the line of hair from his navel, playing and tugging it gently, right between John's legs, detouring past his semi-erect cock and clasping John's warm balls in the palm of his hand, kneading them between his fingers.

A deep throaty moan escaped John and Greg grinned against his lips in amusement. Greg climbed on top of John's chest in one smooth motion, freeing both of John arms, and began thrusting slowly just above John's throbbing erection, not wanting to give the man beneath him the satisfaction of touch just yet. Greg leaned against John's chest and took one of the pink nubs between his lips, sucking at it playfully, never taking his eyes off John. At the sight of Greg Lestrade straddling his chest, and the feel of the detectives cock and testicles pressing, rubbing into the skin below his, John brought his hands up to thread his fingers through his own hair.

It was as his right hand fell lifelessly towards his face that John could see his life flashing before his eyes. The mammoth hand grew bigger and bigger and very unmajestically slammed into John's face with a loud thwack, while his other hand hovered mid-air watching the slap-stick unfold before him.

John opened his eyes and pushed his dead attacking arm off his chest with his good hand to reveal to reveal a very red-faced detective inspector, biting chucks out of his bottom lip.

John sigh deeply and looked at the ceiling, bracing himself for the moment to come.

"Go on, you can laugh… again"

And with that Greg unleashed a deep heart laugh from his chest and rolled off John onto the sheets, gripping at his sides and sending himself into a fit of coughing.

"Ahahahahah, my sides, John." He spurted between fits of giggles. There was no fading in the intensity of the laughter for a solid five minutes and John became restless. He threw his leg over the crouched form of the detective and latched onto his lips. Greg's laughed subsided and he pulled John into a deep intense kiss, letting his tongue explore the confides of the John's mouth and taking a deep breath in through his nose, inhaling the scene of morning John.

John detached from Greg's mouth and began to kiss his way down Greg's surprisingly toned physique. John traced his fingers along the fading ab muscles and grinned, kissing and tonguing each groove intensely. Greg moaned at the touch and threaded his long fingers into John's short blonde hair. John looked up at Greg, who had his head tilted back into his pillow and his mouth open yearningly.

'_God he is so hot right now', _John thought to himself and grinned into one of Greg's loose abs. He shuffled down further and leaned in between Greg's long strong thighs. John looked at the erect throbbing muscle in front of him. He examined the bulbous purple head, much bigger than John's own tip. He raised himself onto weak elbows and pressed a gentle kiss onto the leaking tip. Greg shuddered at the touch and it reverberated through his body. John licked around the tip and brought his tongue back into his mouth to savour the taste, it was musty, but not horrible, not even bad, most certainly tolerable.

At this revelation John smiled and plunged his head over the entire shaft, causing Greg and elicit a carnal groan. John sucked at the member firmly in his mouth and gripped the base of the shaft with his now recovered right hand tightly and began pumping it, mimicking what he would like done to him.

Greg's groans grew louder and louder with every pump of John's hand and lips, as Greg had performed on John the night before.

"Ooooh, Christ, John… Y-you are so fucking hot between my thighs."

John stopped moving and looked at Greg, whose face had dropped from ecstasy to shock at the loss of control of his own words. But John smiled in response and licked the slit of Greg's cock to reassure him. John continued to swallow more and more of Greg in his mouth and was encouraged by the ever increasing moans he was eliciting from Greg. His hands bunching in John's hair was almost enough to make John's own throbbing erection spurt all over the bed sheets.

John could feel Greg tightening and with one, two, three more pumps of his fist along Greg's shaft, the younger man came in John's mouth. John instinctively swallowed all the liquid and licked his lips satisfactorily feeling the drops of semen on his lips.

Greg whimpered and went limp under him, gently ushering John to join him up beside him with the half-wave of his hand.

John climbed up beside him and slide his arm around the man panting beside him.

"What are you doing to me, like, what are you doing to me", Greg repeated, rolling his head back and forth with his hand bunched in his hair. John laughed and kissed into Greg's neck.

In the almost-silence of the room, dulled by the recuperating noises of Greg and the sucking of John against his neck, a phone buzzed on the table-top beside the bed. Greg whined again and reached over John to retrieve the item. He clicked the 'answer' button and held the phone lazily to his ear.

"Hrmm-llo?" Greg mumbled into the receiver.

"Boss, its Donovan."

Greg mouthed a loud 'Fuck' into the air and held the phone back to his ear.

"W-what is it Donovan? What time is it? It's Saturday isn't it?" Greg grumbled confusedly into the phone and looked down at John who nodded his reply.

"I know it is Boss but, something has come up, a case, and you have to come down and look at it right away." She asked coyly.

"Hrmmm. Can't the criminal underbelly of London work Monday to Friday like the rest of us?"

"It seems not, sir"

"Fine, fine-" He looked down sheepishly to the most adorable eyes he had ever seen, wide and full of genuine concern, not flagged by selfish intent. This was something Greg was not used to in his line of work. Everyone wanted a favour to suit themselves, but no one cared that their offloading meant more work for Greg in the evenings. But as Sherlock said, John was different.

"-text me the address and I'll see you there whenever I can."

"Yes, sir" and the line went dead.

Greg brought his arms up and wrapped them tenderly around John's shoulders, cradling into the fading muscles of an ex-soldier.

"I'm so sorry John, I wasn't expecting a call. Not today." He placed a loving kiss on top of John's head.

"It's alright Greg, I can tag along if you need me", John smiled up at the detective.

"I'd be there regardless but I'm just going from a different direction today", he smirked into the detectives shoulder.

"And coming back in a different direction too", Greg winked at John and they both grinned widely at one another.

John's stomach decided to unceremoniously growl just as Greg's lips with millimetres away from his own. Greg looked down and chuckled.

"Better feed you. I'll need you full of energy for me for the day ahead. Although you shouldn't really be hungry, with all you're after eating already" he snigger and was rewarded with a swift slap to the thigh and poke to the ribs.

"I'm not full yet it would seem, ass" John swatted playfully at Greg.

Both men detangles and John made his way to the bathroom.

"Do you mind if I have a quick shower before we go?" John searched around the room for a towel and grabbed one from the towel rack in the bathroom.

"Only if I can join you, Captain"

John laughed, turned on the water and stepped into the warm water, gently lathering his whole body with shower gel.

He peaked around the corner and curled his finger towards Greg, who wordlessly hopped in behind him and planned to make use of his second erection of the morning.


	8. V' is for Victim

It was a long walk to West Bridge Park from Baker Street, but Sherlock Holmes needed the fresh air. He instinctively turned the collar of his jacket against the sharp gale that was blowing. He needed the time to think and mull the last 24 hours over.

He knew he would not be able to live without John. That was a fact. As much as he hated admitting him himself, he wasn't actually the sociopath everyone presumed he was. He was high-functioning, that was not an issue, but it wasn't that he was incapable of caring for the wellbeing of other people, rather he found the issues of common life altogether boring, too mundane to concern himself in. As a result, people just presumed he didn't care for them. He never concerned himself in the banalities of domesticity and he certainly never found his own love life interesting so the infidelities of his acquaintances never concerned him, especially since he could already predict their spouses' lovers' profession from their aftershave.

But when it came to John, Sherlock was more than concerned. Sherlock could not place why he cared so much that John was seeing Lestrade. Maybe it was because he knew Greg (or was it Gary?) and that if anything were to happen between his best friends and his 'commanding officer', both of his social spheres would contort and implode in on themselves. And that was something he would not risk.

A mass of police officers had gathered outside the entrance of the Park, secured with a thin strip of yellow plastic tape, questioning the curious onlookers and pacing back and forth on their mobile phones. The residents of the apartments opposite the park peered through their open curtains; some blatantly stood at their windows and pointed out the scene below to the other people in the room while other residents tried to be less conspicuous. A small shrivelled finger hooked the frilled edge of lacy curtain. Small beady eyes concealed behind think framed spectacles peered from the bottom corner. Sherlock passed the small window and the finger and glasses disappeared from sight.

A small middle-aged woman heaved a sparkling white mist from his chapped lips, rubbing their gloved hands together for warmth. When she spotted the dark lanky detective striding towards the gate she smiled weakly, the slight curl of her lip inching closer to her small button nose. She lifted the tape instinctually and Sherlock ducked under, accommodating for the height difference the woman's short arms were capable of. He turned to the woman and thanked her, feeling a twang of some kind of emotion spring in his chest. Tears prickled in his eyes at the small act of kindness but he blinked them away in an instant.

The heavy wrought-iron gates groaned and shrieked on their hinges as Sherlock pushed the latch downward and out, leaving the gate ajar in his wake. A thin veil of dry leaves, curled and bronzed with age and death covered the pathway below him and crunched as he advanced closer to the crime scene. Tall trees scarce with leaves stretched and reached on both sides of the man-made path, creating a canopy of dry, weeping limbs above his head. Another mass of officers had gathered around an area close to the edge of the narrow meandering river which streamed through the park.

Donovan had her faced buried in a small black notebook, her mass of curly black hair bobbing in the wind, her brows knitted in the middle in concentration, when she heard the sound of Sherlock's footsteps closing in. She stood upright and the deep lines of her forehead loosened and her frown change from one of concentration to one of irritation.

"You took your time." she said, a bitter bite in her words.

"I was… busy." Sherlock sighed, indifferent to her unpleasantness, remembering the last hour he had spent cradling his flatmates woollen jumper to his face in silence.

"Whatever-" she snapped, unnecessary callousness dripping from the word and the two detectives walked towards the body. "- the victim was a young woman, Caucasian, 5ft 7in. No I.D. was found on the body but we know the victim as one Vicky Vance. She is a model, turned fashion designer knows simply as 'V'. 'V' had just returned from The States, launching her new clothing range. 'Boutique quality, high-street price.' That's was she was claiming. She was good. Knew what she was doing. She would have had a great career…"

Donovan continued for a few more minutes and they hadn't even reached the body yet but Sherlock blanked it out. He squeezed the bridge of his nose between his index finger and thumb, a habit he had learned from his flatmate who had been seen performing the action several times during the day at the different things Sherlock would do or say. Sherlock smiled weakly at John's memory but frowned suddenly. He looked up and scanned the crime scene, racing a bit ahead when he spotted a circle of officers around what was presumably the body.

He scanned the group, his eyes studying the tense forms of the chilled officers, but there was no sign of John. He turned to Donovan who had just caught up to Sherlock, a grimace on her face.

"Where's John?" he asked her inquisitively.

She scanned the crowd vaguely and shrugged. "Don't know-"

Sherlock huffed and balled his hands into fists.

"-he was here just a second ago talking to Lestrade. They must have gone for coffee or something."

At this Sherlock's face relaxed into a pleasant smile and Donovan scrutinised the change in his features.

"We're at the scene of a murder. Don't look so happy, Freak." Donavan scowled before pushing past the taller man.

Sherlock turned, still smiling and pushed through the officers. The body of the young woman came into view and Sherlock was surprised to see the body cocooned in a think un-sheeted duvet. A small blonde head peered out from a small gap in the covers.

"Did one of you do this?" Sherlock asked, turning to the crowd.

"Do you think we're than thick?" Anderson piped in, taking photographs of the victim to Sherlock's side.

With a glimmer of futility still lingering in his mind from his fight with John last night and the note sliver he had found this morning, he couldn't bring himself honestly answer Anderson's remark. His heart felt heavy with remorse and he longer to see his friends face one more. He looked around again but the doctor was nowhere to be seen. He sighed loudly and his eyes grew heavy with dejection. With his head full of John he did not caring who could hear him. He has never meant to hurt John as he had. He though he was doing him a favour by skipping past the initial flirtations, straight to the establishment of an emotional connection between the two men, but apparently John and Greg were fond of the sentimentalities of conventional dating. Of course he wanted John to be happy. He wanted nothing more than for his flatmate to find someone who made him feel wanted and someone to care for him, because goodness knows that he deserved all the happiness in the world. He was only trying to help, but he couldn't even do that right. He couldn't make John happy and with that realisation, Sherlock's heart sank in his chest and his eyes lined with tears.

With an air of triumph at Sherlock's silence, Anderson reached around the body and lifted the covers, revealing that the body was donned in a tightly-fitted, unnecessarily revealing cocktail dress, paired with expensive looking nude high-heels.

Sherlock stood in silence looking over the body. Wave after wave of analysis and emotion crashed in on him and he almost stumbled with the sensation. He gasped at the sudden intake as clue after clue pieced themselves together in his mind. Neat lipstick. Single earring. False eyelashes. Dyed hair fitted with extensions. Clean dress. Nightclub. Bar. Plane. Bag? Mobile phone? Taxi receipt, Wallet but no I.D. gaunt. White face. Open mouth. Purple lips. Black dead eyes. He gasped with the influx of information and whimpered as the wealth of it caused a stabbing pain behind his closed eyelids. A single tear rolled down his frozen cheek and crashed the palms of his hands into is eye sockets.

He pulled back from the scene and opened his eyes. The scene before him was spinning and he ducked his head into his chest, reaching for something to brace himself against. His hand grasped onto someone's sleeve and he blink another few tears from his eyes and they rolled down his face.

Somewhere far in the distance beneath the deafening buzz of his ears, Sherlock could hear the sound of a man's voice.

"Sherlock. Hello? HELLO? Can you hear me? I don't know what's wrong with him. He was fine when I left last night. Speak to me Sherlock."

Sherlock listened to the one sided conversation the man was having with someone in the distance.

Sherlock opened his eyes with a strong hand gripped his shoulder gently. It was John.

Sherlock's mouth curled in a smile but his tears kept falling. The scene was still spinning and his eyes twisted in circles trying to keep up with the movement.

"He must be having some form of seizure-" John spoke in a worried tone. "- Greg, quickly call an ambulance."

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at his flatmate. John's eyes were wide with concern and his lips were moving with more words but the buzzing was getting louder and louder.

The world started to fade into white and with one last effort Sherlock spoke, "I... I'm s-sorry."

And with that Sherlock collapsed on the cold hard ground.


	9. I think you should know that

John was awoken from a fitful slumber by the sound of the ward door being pushed open on creaking hinges. The noise was erratic in contrast to the dull hum of medical equipment that had lulled the worn out doctor into a restless sleep. John looked through sleep-crusted eyelids at the young nurse who had burst through the door.

She looked no older than 21 but John knew the symptoms of a student nurse before she even looked at him. The skin beneath her vividly green eyes was darkly shaded in deep half-moons from years of day training, night shifts and examinations, topped with trying to squeeze a social life in to the mix. He remembered his days in training; the hours, the doctors they were under, the noisy waiting rooms and the screaming children. He smiled gently at the memories. He never thought he would miss those days, before the war, before civilian life tried to break him. But he had Sherlock now to keep him occupied, and for that he was eternally grateful.

John looked at the man in question. His lanky frame was sprawled out under thin over-laundered bed sheets. His skin almost matched the colour of the sheets that clung to his lithe frame so tightly. John studied the jagged bones that protruded through the thin blue and white night gown. His heart sank deep inside the pit of his stomach while he watched as the very visible collarbone and ribs rose up and down in shallow, barely audible breaths. Sherlock was a wreck, and John did nothing to stop this from happening.

"He's lucky to be as good as he is. I've seen neglected children die with more nourishment than he has had recently." The young nurse commented, observing the longing look John was giving the bedded man.

"I-" John wept, "-I can't even remember the last time he ate."

The young nurse looked at John with a puzzled, bemused expression on her face. A long silence ensued between the two conscious people in the room while watching the one unconscious man remain unconscious.

"If you or your boyfriend need to talk to anyone about this, the reception desk will enrol you in a few classes. Anorexia is the most common eating disorder in Britain and is much more common in men than the media lets on." She smiled and tried to console John with a gently, awkward pat on the shoulder.

John looked up to her, his eyebrows knitted in the centre.

"No-no Sherlock's not my boyfriend. We're not together."

"Could have fooled me" the young woman smirked and gestured to the bed with her dark shaded eyes.

John looked back down to the lanky man in the bed and started when he spied his own hand curled into Sherlock's loosely opened fingers. John's faced reddened and he pulled his fingers instinctively away. He watched as Sherlock's fingers twitched from the sudden loss. He didn't remember putting his hand into Sherlock's, but saying that, he didn't remember falling asleep either so anything is possible at this stage of the night.

John hummed a moment trying to recollect his thoughts.

"Anyway, Sherlock doesn't have an eating disorder, sometimes he just forgets… to… eat." John couldn't even conceal the scepticism in his own voice at how feeble an argument that played out loud.

"I'll bring you two down some leaflets anyway." The young nurse said, patting John's shoulder once more before exiting the room with a loud clash of wood-on-wood.

In the wake of the sudden noise, Sherlock jolted up in the cramped bed and scanned the room with beady, dopey eyes. When he failed to recognise his location he whimpered gently and reached his hands out in distress, searching for something to keep him steady.

John stood up and took his searching hand in his own while placing his free hand to the side of Sherlock's neck.

"Ssssh, sssssh. It's okay. It's okay. Sherlock. It's me, John. You're in the hospital."

Sherlock's wide eyes studied the small man caressing his neck and visibly relaxed under his gently touch.

"J-John, John, John. W-why am I…" Sherlock trailed off before John interjected.

"Turns out you haven't been eating properly, or sleeping as a matter of fact."

John's heart sank once more as the angel and the devil on his shoulders battled among themselves. He wasn't Sherlock's babysitter, nor was he romantically connected to him. Sherlock was a grown man and shouldn't need his friends to keep track of his diet and sleeping patterns. But Sherlock was a grown five year old unleashed upon the world in a man's body and if there was medication which could eliminate the need for food and sleep entirely, he would be addicted to those too.

John lowered Sherlock back onto the bed, never letting go of his hand. Sherlock growled something about food impairing his cognition and the weakness of sleep under his breath.

"Sherlock-" John started, his words fuelled by concern, "-please, please tell me you have eaten something since the Polantizi case!"

Sherlock looked down at his clothed chest and sighed. John dropped his head similarly and brought his free hand up to cradle his forehead.

"I have myself to look after, Sherlock, I can't be taking care of you too."

Sherlock sat in silence for a moment before mumbling, "I have never asked you to look after me."

John's eyes widened and his lips pulled into a thin line. "Well obviously you do need minding. For Christ sake, Sherlock. How could you possible forget to eat? No seriously! Do you not notice when your stomach is rumbling for food?" John assaulted the manchild with questions.

"I was wondering what that noise was. I thought I had a particularly noisy ulcer or tumour of some sort" Sherlock mumbled once more.

John sighed and rolled his eyes, but he couldn't help but smile. "You great… arse."

Sherlock looked up and stared at John with an intensity the doctor had never experienced from his flatmate before. It wasn't hatred or fear or irritation, the usual glare he was accustomed to receiving. It was honest and gentle and Sherlock big wide eyes calmed the tightness caught up in John's shoulders.

John's lips involuntarily curled and the two men stared at each other for a long time. It was the sound of footsteps passing outside the door that broke the men from their tired, hazy gazing. John blinked rapidly and brought his lips into a tight line.

Sherlock cleared his throat and started, "John, I-. Well. Ahem. I don't know, I mean, don't know how to, to say…" he stutter, waving his hand in small circles, trying to suggest meanings to John.

"Look, Sherlock. What you did was, well, it was pretty horrible of you…" John looked up and was met with wet puppy eyes. John cleared his throat before continuing. "… but I do know that you don't think the same was as the rest of us do, so I'm guessing, correct me if I'm wrong, that you didn't actually mean all the things you said to be taken so… so personally."

The puppiness of Sherlock's eyes dried out and a weak smile curled across his lips.

"You are not however off the hook and we will be talking about how to properly address human feeling and how not to piss people off while trying to convey them. I'll make you a deal, if you promise to make an effort not to make people want to punch you in the face, I'll forgive all of this. How does that sound?"

Sherlock nodded and gripped John's hand tightly. John looked down to the pair of hands and smiled at how natural it felt.

"John?" Sherlock stuttered

"Yes, Sherlock." The older man replied.

"Can I ask you something… something personal?"

John tried to conceal to weariness of the question from his face before gesturing for Sherlock to continue. "Yes?"

"D-do you, I mean, would you, ahem, Goodness me, it's hot in here…" Sherlock dramatically fanned himself with his free hand and John could feel Sherlock's other hand sweat in between his. John grew more concerned by the second.

"Spit it out, man" John joked because he had never seen the detective so nervous before in the short time they have known each other.

"I've been meaning to ask you for a long time now and now…" he gulped "… I think you should know that…"

John pulled the fold-up chair closer to Sherlock's heaving form. "What? Sherlock, what?"

"I think I..."

And with that the large wooden double-doors swung open with a clatter and Sherlock instinctively drew his hand away from John. The sudden loss made John jump and grip his now empty palm, feeling the trace of warmth and sweat from the other man.

"Hello sirs." Greg Lestrade bellowed and curled his hand around John's back. He leaned in to John's head and placed a firm kiss onto his hair. John looked up and met Sherlock's gaze and gasped very lightly. A fine glistening of tears lined Sherlock bottom lids that wasn't there before and his eyes looked longingly into John's. John's mouth fell open and a thousand ending to Sherlock's unfinished question popped into his head.

"You alright, love?" Greg brought his lips down and spoke gently into John's ear. John started with a jump and turned to face the silver haired man.

"Yeah, yeah I'm fine. Just tired I suppose." John replied, suddenly very conscious of how close Greg was standing to him in front of Sherlock.

John cleared his throat and rubbed the pretend sleep from his eyes towards Greg, who seemed entirely convinced of the performance. 'Should have gone into acting', John thought to himself.

Greg turned to Sherlock who was watching the drama unfold before him.

"How are you now? You gave us all a fright. Poor John here was nearly in tears trying to resuscitate you." He laughed louder than John and Sherlock felt socially acceptable at 5am in a hospital.

Sherlock looked to Greg and something darkened in his expression. "Lucky I didn't die. He'd be inconsolable."

Greg laughed in response but the other men simply looked at each other, both knowing there was more to the comment than Greg had understood.

"Well we couldn't have that, could we? The Yard would be lost without its own consulting detective."

The compliment was met with a blank stare from Sherlock. "You're a bit slow on the uptake today, aren't you?"

"This is what it must be like living in your brain, Detective Inspector", Sherlock replied, a twinge of humour in his voice.

Lestrade rubbed the palm of his hand up and down John's back and laughed loudly. "His sense of humour isn't gone yet anyway. Pity really. Right, love, I think you need a few hours of sleep. You don't seem to be yourself just yet."

John looked away from Sherlock face and up to Greg's pearly line of teeth. He smiled instinctively but refused. "I- I can't leave Sherlock here on his own. Not tonight. I'll just sleep here for a bit and…"

Sherlock interjected before John could finish. "I'm fine here, John. I'll be sleeping the drugs off so I'll be little company anyway. Please. Go home and sleep. You can come back to me tomorrow if you choose." Each word was spoken from deep inside his chest and their release looked physically painful to him. John wanted nothing more than to jump on the bed and hug the warmth back into him, hug the pain so much it would never return. But he didn't.

"Are- are you sure?" he responded weakly.

"Of course. Bring me in my laptop when you're coming back. I'll need some solid stimulus once I'm fully functional." His lips smiled widely but his eyes drooped, not enough for Greg to notice, but enough for John to know that this conversation wasn't over.

"Oh. And you can fill me in on the details of the case tomorrow too, Lestrade." The smile loosened from Sherlock's lips.

"Alright. We'll see you tomorrow. Sleep well. Call if you need anything. We'll need you fit and able to find this sonovabitch as quickly as possible." Greg waved as he pulled John to his feet.

"Talk to you tomorrow, John." Sherlock fronted.

"Talk to you tomorrow, Sherlock." He replied.

John and Greg passed through the thick wooden doors.

"He seems in great form doesn't he? Better than I was expecting from a drama queen who won't even feed himself properly. I don't know why you put up with him, love" Greg entwined his fingers into John's but the older man never responded.

In the darkness of the room John had just exited, Sherlock curled the blanket around his thin, frail form. A pool of wetness soaked into the pillow.


	10. Bleeding hearts

John awoke the next morning alone in his own bed. He groaned a nasally snarl and pulled himself up in the bed. He leaned forward and bunched the covers under his chin in an effort to conceal the small amount of heat his tired body was capable of producing. He turned to the clock on his night stand:

10:49am

He had slept 1 hour and 46 minutes.

He crashed his palms into his eye sockets in a feeble attempt to clear his thought, or better still, knock some sense into his weary brain.

He hadn't felt like staying at Greg's again last night and after the way he had left Baker street, he felt it was necessary to bring his stuff back and put the house in order before Sherlock returned.

He had stayed up and roughly cleaned the flat in his tired haze of consciousness. It was foolish to think that tidying a few petri dishes and fast food containers away from the counter top would counteract the fight they had or the conversation in the hospital room which had followed.

John shuck his head keeping his bloodshot eyes closed, hidden away from the stark light of day.

What did he want to tell me that was so important that he couldn't wait until he was better to say it, yet it wasn't urgent enough to say it in front of Greg?

John rattled his brain for an answer to the question Sherlock had left open ended in the hospital room, to the proclamation that had been rolling around in the strange depths of his lucid dreaming:

'I think I…'

John hummed subconsciously to himself trying to piece together all the ambiguous clues he had been given, but all he could think about was the sadness in Sherlock's dark eyes when John had left the hospital room and the warm touch of his hand before Greg had barged in. A sharp chilled ran down the length of John's spine at the memory.

He had to know. He just had to know what Sherlock was going to ask.

John jolted out of the bed and threw on various articles of clothing. Grabbing his essentials, John stalked beady-eyed towards the front door. He stopped suddenly remembering what Sherlock had said about the laptop. With a minute groan John retraced his steps and walked into Sherlock's bedroom. His eyes scanned the small neat room searching for the item in question. A small gasp escaped John's lips and his hands fly instinctively towards his mouth.

His woollen jumper. The one he had tied into knots and thrown at the bottom of his wardrobe was folded into a neat, untangled parcel beside Sherlock's pillow. John advanced towards the pillow with a slight air of trepidation in his step, like the object was something to be feared. Without touching the perfectly straightened sheets, John grabbed the mass of cloth off the bed and watched as it unfolded in his grasp. A small piece of paper twisted in rapid pirouettes and gracefully landed on the bed face-up.

John held the jumper to his face and inhaled. It smelled like Sherlock; sweet and musty with a hint of aftershave and shampoo. John decided that Sherlock must have held the item long enough for a scent to transfer which means he held in tightly for a long period of time. John clenched his hands into tight fists and his eyes wandered to the small note glaring up at him from the bed. In that instant, John felt all the blood drain and trickle down his body and large, fat tears carved canals into his cheeks:

You arrogant dickhead

What have a done?

John recalled the anger he had vented into his pen the night he scribed that note. He could feel the venom building in the back of his throat, but this time it wasn't from Sherlock's callousness, or the indifference in his voice after verbally humiliating his two closest friends that had once fuelled the rage; right now the venom was all John's. He felt anger tighten in his chest and he felt humiliated for being so blind, so foolish. John Watson wept in utter dejection and confusion.

John picked up the note and scanned it with watery dark-red bloodshot eyes. What must Sherlock have thought of this?

He tried to glue the pieces together, but after 15 minutes of faulted concentration, he exhaled a large lungful of air. It was no use. He would just have to talk to Sherlock, and fast.

John gathered himself, wiping his eyes coarsely with the back of his sleeve. He straightened to his full height and rocked his head back and forth, relieving imaginary tensions in his neck. He took a deep breath through his nose and held it, his entire face contorted in a grimace, urging his eyes to hold back the tears. At one he opened his eyes and he became the perfected image of militarised self-control.

He made his way to the front door throwing his jumper back into his room and pocketing the note. He held Sherlock's laptop case under his arm.

Just before he passed through the door, John spied a dark mass from the corner of his eye.

A scarf, Sherlock's scarf.

With a weak smile, John grabbed the scarf and carefully entwined the material around his neck, imitating the slick manner Sherlock managed to wear it, before passing into the bitter chill of London in winter.

John followed the yellow brick road to Sherlock. And by road the meant corridor. And by brick they meant paint.

He stared at the various colour-coordinated guiding lines as this feet passed over them. The markers painted onto the hospital floor ran along the corridors, stemming off at various intersections from the lobby right through the hospital. The yellow line led to the Psychiatry department, where Sherlock was being help for an eating disorder.

_He doesn't have a disorder, but if they keep him in here for much longer, he will be the cause of much disorder. _

John laughed silently to himself, watching as the long twining network of corridors lead off into various wards of the hospital.

John's lips moved in unison with the rehearsed words he had recycled from various rom-com's was was 'forced' to sit through. He had formulated a plan in the taxi on the way to the hospital, trying to find the perfect address to Sherlock's question.

In his own Mind Palace, John would stride purposefully into Sherlock's room. He would pull the thin curtain back and Sherlock would glow with delight at his arrival. Sherlock would crawl from his bed, rip off his paper gown and jump into John's open arms and when they kissed, their hair would blow majestically in the breeze with desire and Hollywood glamour and expectations.

He passed by rooms with large black numbers painted on the doors

51, 52, 53, 54, 55…

_I have been thinking about what you said and now I know that you have very strong feels for me._

56, 57, 58, 59 60…

_Within the limits of my power I will try and make you the happiest man I can possibly make you._

_No. wait…_

_61, 62, 63, 64…_

_I want to have your babies. We will have short hobbit children but they will be beautiful with your dark hair and cheekbones. _

_No wait. That's not it either._

John stood between rooms 64 and 65 with an amusing level of perplexed concentration written cross his features.

The young student nurse brushed past him and did a double take, "Hello again sir. You're 'friend' was raving on about you last night. You'd be lucky to have him," the young woman smirked before continuing on her way.

John stared as the young nurse continued walking down the corridor, her papery scrubs moving rigidly with her.

John started into a hurried dash.

6566676869…

70

The large wooden door were closed and as far as John could tell, it was very unlikely that there would be anyone else in visiting him. Sherlock had only been admitted yesterday and had begged John not to concern his family, particularly Mycroft. Although, it was very unlikely that Mycroft didn't know about Sherlock's fainting spell at this stage. Mycroft probably knew exactly when Sherlock ate last and what that meal consisted of.

John braced himself against the wood and heaved both doors open. The gesture was over dramatic and he knew it. There was no time for rethinking his style of entrance or what he might say to coax the information out of the bedded man. He had everything planned and it was going to run as smooth as honey in his favour. If he had to climb on top of his bed and straddle the information out of Sherlock, he would.

With that image in his mind, John shuck his head and promised himself some well-deserved sleep after this.

With the room still in silence and the large curtain around Sherlock's bed, John choked.

His brain began to pulse and every bone in his body screamed at him to stop, before it was too late to back out. In the end he chickened out of making his grand entrance and instead crept on tip-toe, trying to make as little noise as possible. His heart was racing in his ears but a small light switched on in his brain. He couldn't just jump out of the darkness! He would scare the big man sized baby into a coma. Instead he feebly made his presence known.

"Hello?" John whispered to the curtain.

Silence.

"I'm back, and I brought your laptop. Although I don't know how much use it will be considering there is no Wifi in the building. But I suppose you can improve your Spider Solitaire skills." John chuckled at his own outdated reference.

"Look, I wanted to talk to you about what you saaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiii…"

John's heart just about stopped as he pulled back the gossamer curtain and spotted a very naked Sherlock stretching in front of the window, in plain view of London's skyline. "Christ, Sherlock. Would you put some clothes on?"

"Do you mind? I'm trying to … relax… or something. The nurse said it would be beneficial to do so naked, to release my 'spiritual energy' from its 'earthly bonds'. I don't know what these student nurses are smoking but I think I might acquire it, because it seems to be working. If not on me, then definitely on you. You're practically drooling at my behind."

Sherlock turned his head around and looked at the doctor, who [ lol accident] stood ogling at the marvel of Sherlock's body with an undeniable bittersweetness.

His shoulders and upper back were toned and defined in bulges and ridges of muscle, yet when he stretched up on his toes, John could count every rib in his back. His pelvic bones were protruding through his skin and his long arms seemed breakable thin. He had never noticed his friend wither way, especially in contrast to the incident at Buckingham palace. Beneath the bulk of his thick flowing coat, Sherlock stood like a porcelain doll; pale, weak and so very fragile.

However, he did still have a delectably plump behind and John hated that he had made it so obvious.

"You'll freeze out here. Heard it's going to hit the minus numbers tonight."

Sherlock reached down to touch his toes and John involuntarily looked away at the further exposure his exhibitionist of a flatmate was endeavouring to him.

"And are you going to help keep me warm in this horrid weather, doctor?"

"No he's going to keep me warm." A deep voice loomed from behind the thin paper curtain with a laugh.

Both men jumped at the intrusion and Greg Lestrade's large form came into view. Sherlock cupped his genitalia.

"Nice to see you up and about, nature boy. Now if you wouldn't mind putting some clothes on, I need to give you some information on the case." Greg's voice was suddenly shrill and slightly menacing. Sherlock wordlessly obliged and proceeded to sit down on the small metal bed facing the two men. John had remained silent the entire time, feeling like a child who had been caught doing something he shouldn't have been doing with someone he shouldn't have been doing it with in a place he shouldn't have been.

Greg turned and looked lovingly at the tired, slumped form of his other, who had returned to his chair where he had dozed only hours before.

"Did you get any sleep, John? To be honest, you don't look like you did. No excuses, you're coming back with me now and you're going to get a proper amount of sleep in before tonight."

John looked up at Greg and his contagious smile.

"Why? What's happening tonight?" John asked inquisitively.

At this, Sherlock cocked his head, a gentle impulsive smirk played across his lips.

"I just thought we'd… you know… do something tonight… together… I mean… or something… you know… you can decide" Greg fumbled through the sentence, turning slightly away from Sherlock penetrative gaze with the grace of an elephant, scratching the back of his head with his hand nervously.

John could feel a rush of heat enter his chest and his heart leap at the thoughts of spending a night out, a proper night out with Greg, maybe the cinema, or a romantic dinner, or just movies in front of the TV, but immediately after this, his heart sank because less than half an hour ago he wanted nothing more than to have Sherlock's babies.

The ex-soldier could feel an unnerving tension building up in his chest, like his heart was being stretched apart, with Sherlock holding one half and Greg holding the other.

He closed his eyes and drew in one long deep breath and exhaled it through his nose.

He didn't want to hurt Greg's feeling by rejecting going on their date but at the same time he didn't want to hurt Sherlock, his best friend who has helped him through so much. But that's just it. He's John's best 'friend', but a friend nonetheless. John didn't know what Sherlock was thinking. He remembered Mrs. Hudson's comment about Sherlock after The Women had faked her death,

_How will we ever know what goes on in that funny old head?_

How will anyone ever know? And how could anyone trust the words that fall from his lips? He manipulates and lies to get what he wants, and right now he wanted John's affections, maybe his love.

_What does Sherlock know about love besides?_ John mused.

_He might love me one minute and toss me aside when he gets bored of me, like he did with Lenny._

Sherlock had taken to call the severed head in the fridge by his real-life nickname, which unsettle the heebee geebee's out of John.

A sudden pang of ache caught in his chest and he reached his hand up to sooth the pain. John gasped lightly as a large strong hand gently messaged small circles in the back of his neck. With a long drawn sigh, John relaxed into the movement and he smiled uncontrollably.

"It's ok, love. We'll be leaving soon." Greg cooed into his ear, like a hummingbird suckling a Bleeding Heart. *

John groaned his response and smiled again.

Greg stood straight and readjusted his shirt collar, a devilish grin spread across his lips.

"Now, sunshine-" Greg gestured to Sherlock, his face black with conflicting emotion. "- the victim was…"

"24, a UK size 10, not a natural blonde and had broken up from a frivolous engaged only in the last month."

Greg groaned his annoyance.

"We're not looking for gossip or speculation, Sherlock. Only hard facts."

Sherlock turned his penetrative gaze once more to the detective.

"If you wanted 'Hard evidence' you should have stayed at the crime scene."

Greg groaned again and looked to john for support.

John looked up and shrugged his shoulders.

"He's all yours, love."

John stiffened slighted at how natural the endearing remark slipped out and Greg Squeezed John's neck muscles gleefully in response.

With a large cheesy grin on his face, Greg turned back to Sherlock.

"Go on so, enlighten me."

On the side-line, Sherlock had watched the scene unfold and he carefully clamped his hand against his chest for support, trying to keep his lax mouth shut.

"It wasn't he ex-fiancés, nor was it the string of lovers she is currently seeing. Was seeing, I mean." Both John and Greg grunt in unison at Sherlock's insensitivity.

"This is business related and… and that's all I can tell you for now."

Greg and John looked at Sherlock inquisitively. "C'mon Sherlock, don't hold back on us now. This isn't a bloody game you know the answers too but are too thick to tell us any of the clues. This is serious. A woman died. It's not a secret we're not allowed to know anything about. Christ, Sherlock." Greg ranted on, a dark blue vein pulsed in his neck.

Sherlock looked small and humble in the bed, his two feet were tucked under his chin and his pointed chin rested heavily on his knees. "I-I didn't get a proper chance to see her, or the scene before I- I…"

John stood up and reached over to Sherlock's trembling form. "It's ok, it's ok. We can do this again. Get some sleep and see if you can remember anything then, ok?"

John hushed the whimpering man who simply nodded his head in response.

"There's no point us staying. This is obviously too much for him. We'll come back tomorrow and see what he says."

Greg sighed and nodded in reluctant agreement. "Ok, we'll come back."

"Call us if you need anything." John said, smiling warmly at Sherlock's hunched frame.

"Ok" Sherlock responded weakly.

The two men left the ward and followed the yellow brick road back to the car park.

When John and Greg left the room, Sherlock uncoiled his body and grunted, stretching out his neck muscles and returning to his strong, limber form. He pulled the laptop off the floor and called the screen to life.

After a moment's silence John asked, "So what are these plans you have in mind for tonight?

Greg chuckled and entwined his long fingers into John's, "You'll have to wait and see, won't you?"

John smirked and the two men peaked their lips together.

"Hope your friend is ok" a voice called from behind them.

The young nurse stood staring at the two men, a grey clipboard in her hand.

John shuffled from foot to foot and replied, a twinge of nervousness in his voice.

"He'll be fine, I'm sure."

Her lips smiled, but her eyes spoke volumes of disapproval and shot between their hands and John's face.

"W-we'll be back tomorrow, t-to see him again."

"He'll be looking forward to that I'm sure." She spat before turning away.

Greg looked at John with an inquisitive look, but John simply shrugged it off, like he didn't understand her hidden meanings, and they headed back towards the front door.

It's a flower. Trust me. I used google.


	11. Settling the score

Hi everyone again.

Thank you all for following along and I truly appriciate everything that you think might make this a better story.

Feel free to leave me a message in the comments and I will get back to you as soon as I can.

What are we thinking so far?

Where will we end up? :)

Cases and plot to come.

Thank you for all the love, kudos and words of inspiration

:D

John was awoken by a small playful poke to the ribs. He opened his eyes wearily and was greeted by the hazy image of Greg's large toothy grin.

"Wakey wakey, John boy. We're here"

John straightened in his seat and felt the pressure of the seatbelt painfully straining into the fold of his neck. He looked out and saw that he was once again outside Greg small flat. He reached his hand up and rubbed the length of his face with his hand aggressively, being very grateful that he wasn't accustomed to wearing make-up.

Greg leaned forward in the seat and handed the driver a handful of notes and coins, uttering appreciations and niceties to the man behind the wheel. After the first night John had ever met Sherlock, John was less inclined to be so friendly to taxi men in general and always kept his hand close to or on the handle of the door, ensuring there was no child lock activated before getting in.

With a light moan, John unbuckled the belt and climbed out of the seat. Outside the cab, Greg held his strong hand out and John grasped it firmly and tenderly in his own. He had never been shown such chivalry before, since he was usually the one to be bestowing the small acts of kindness to once potential female suitors, but those days were gone and the ex-soldier was quite liking the affection shown to him by the taller man.

Greg pulled him out and the taxi sped away into the flurry of London traffic. The wind was cool and sharp and John instantly wrapped his arms around his tired frame shielding himself against the harsh conditions.

"Come here" Greg sighed and pulled John into his open arms. John became enveloped by the smell and feel of Greg's larger form and he melted into the embrace.

They stood for several minutes before Greg suddenly pushed John back, a little more forcefully than felt right.

"Is there a problem?" John cocked his eyebrow, his voice on the cusp of annoyance.

"I think there might be a small problem. A 'semi' problem, if you will."

Greg opened up his jacket and John's eyes shot to the bulge in the front of Greg's trousers. He snigger and grabbed Greg's arm guiding him towards the front door. "Doesn't take much to get you going, does it?"

"I'm just imagining all the places the hug could have led to." He gave a cheeky wink and opened the door.

Inside the apartment, John walked straight through the living area and into Greg's bedroom, jumping onto the bed like a ragdoll. He could feel every nerve in his body tingle and sparkle with motion and his eyes grew heavy with sleep. He could hear Greg fumble with glasses and ice in the kitchen.

John could feel himself sinking deeper and deeper into the bed and the room zoomed out of focus.

"Seriously. Can you not stay away long enough to have a full conversation" Greg called from the door. John sat up and saw two tumblers with ice and some dark coloured beverage in each glass.

"It's a bit early for drinking, isn't it? And besides you told me to come back here to sleep, so that is precisely what I am doing." John turned on his side and propped his head on his hand facing towards Greg as he gracelessly manoeuvred himself onto the bed beside the sleepy doctor.

"Well then this will knock you right out. Like warm milk, with a hell of a kick." Greg smirked and handed John the glass.

John drank down some of the dark icy drink and could feel the pathway of liquid burning his oesophagus. He spluttered as he became overwhelmed by the burning and coughed his airways clear.

A comfortable silence ensued, give John some time to mull over the day and the reasons that built up to his current situation. The fight between the man beside him and the man he lived with.

"You checked the flat and saw I wasn't there" John asked, seemingly out of the blue.

"Yes?" Greg looked at John, a small glimmer of questioning obviousness directed to the older man, like John had just asked him if the Earth went around the sun.

"But how did you know I would be in the hospital though?"

Greg smiled and replied, "Because Sherlock is your best friend, and I know you would do anything for him."

John smiled and leaned his head on Greg's chest, "God, Friday seems so long ago. It feels like we've been so… close… for more than a few days."

"Thursday"

"What?"

"I asked you out on Thursday."

John curled his fingers through the buttons of Greg's shirt and sighed amusedly.

"It just seems so… so…"

"Natural"

"Natural" The two men said in unison.

They turned to face each other before bursting into laughter, John with low breathy chuckles and Lestrade with his unashamed bellowing ripples of unheld laughter.

Another silence ensued but this time it was more awkward, on John's part anyway.

"Greg, I've been meaning to talk to you, about this, about us and..."

Greg shuffled in his place, not so much out of nervousness, but to better comfort himself to the conversation to follow.

"Go on." A delicate sincere smile played across his lips. It was with this ease that John found it hard to bring up the inevitable.

"Ok. Ok. Well, as you know, I'm not used to relations with…"

"…Devilishly handsome Detective Inspectors of New Scotland Yard maybe?" Greg mockingly continued the sentence.

John smiled and laughed. "Close, but no cigar. No, what I have been meaning to say to you is that… that I don't know exactly how I feel about everything. About you, or about Sherlock and it is all getting…"

"Wait. Sherlock?" Greg interjected.

John froze and watched as Greg's face changed from one of light playfulness into something more serious, more trustworthy. He had turned into the Detective Inspector, Greg was left behind.

"Well-" he started. "- Do you h-have feeling for Sherlock?"

John looked at Greg and sighed. "I don't know, if you had asked me this yesterday I would have said no, but right now…"

Greg shuffled in his place and cocked his head gently to the right. "What happened to change your mind so quickly about how you feel about him?"

There was nothing menacing in Greg's tone, yet it made John feel all the more guilty for telling him.

"After what happened at the flat, I wrote a note. It was pretty angry but I ripped off the really insulting bit. He managed to find it anyway. It made me feel horrible for being so cruel about him…"

Greg raised his hand and interrupted politely. "Wait. Wait again. YOU feel bad about calling him out on something he should be grovelling at your feet apologising for? I don't know what you said but I'm sure it was well deserved. Do you think what he did was right? Will it stop him from doing this sort of shit again in the future? Do you honestly think he will learn from this?"

Greg's questions didn't stem from any realm of jealousy or revenge, rather, they were coherent and plausible. He didn't get to be a Detective Inspector for nothing. John looked to Greg and mulled over the questions himself and became more annoyed when the answers all turned up the same.

Sherlock was Sherlock. A high-functioning sociopath. He feigned affections in the past and he probably would again in the future, if he thought they would benefit his great goal. John once again brought his previous question to mind;

What does Sherlock Holmes know about love?

It was only because Sherlock could see that Greg was the better man that Sherlock wanted John's affections; because Greg was a better man than he could ever be. Greg was respected and admired, hard-working and loyal, yet caring and loving. He had everything he could manage to juggle and he was doing a superb job of doing so.

John looked up to Greg after a second of distracted consciousness.

Greg's eyes were soft, but the etches in the skin around his eyes read like brail of sleepless nights and pillowfuls of tears. There was pain hidden behind the strength and John melted all the more looking into them.

"Do you love him?" the question was straight forward and blatant, void of any tricks or illusions. But it still caught the doctor by surprise.

"What? No. no I don't." John recoiled from that bluntness of the statement.

"Could you ever imagine doing this with him?" Greg gesture with his hand between the two men.

John thought for a second before responding, void of all concern, "No, no I couldn't imagine this. Ever."

Greg smiled reassuringly and continued, "Well it's obvious that you are fond of him. You wouldn't have put up with his ways for so long if you didn't admire him on some level. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't think you love him. I'm not saying that you love me! Certainly not, if you did I'd slap a restraining order on your ass-"

They both sniggered and Greg played with the material of John's shirt.

"-all I'm saying is that you have been overwhelmed with the two of us, and if you need some time to think about it, I'll leave you along for a while. It has been such a short amount of time. But it really does feel so very natural. Right here, like this, it feels like it has always been this way."

On hearing this, John whelped. He realised that he couldn't bear to have Lestrade leave him so soon. They were so early on in the agreement that he couldn't just let him walk out on him.

It only took a brief moment for John to realise that all that he felt for Sherlock was empathy, an emotion that would never be requited. He did care for Sherlock but he didn't love him. He was so sure that he did a few hours ago, but he was running on very little sleep and food.

He felt bad for hurting Sherlock with his words but on reflection, John realised that Greg was right. Sherlock would never truly change his ways and there wasn't enough horrible notes in the world to change him.

But John didn't want Sherlock to change. That is why he admired the consulting detective so much in the beginning. Sherlock was coarse and brutal in his deductions and didn't care about how the truth would reflect on others around him. Facts were facts and lies were lies and both were necessary to obtain the information that he needed. But John wouldn't hold him to the lies. He wouldn't be roped into his emotional game anymore.

He looked back up to Greg and smiled, tears prickled in the corners of his eyes.

Greg returned the smile and grabbed both of their glasses before pulling John down into a large enveloping hug.

"You're a big baby, you know that, right?" Greg ran his fingers through John's hair.

"I know." John muffled into the material of Greg's chest.

After an extended silence, John could feel the weight of sleep finally reach him, but cooed vaguely to Greg, who was also falling asleep from the drink.

"…And one more thing."

"What?"

"Never call me 'John boy" again." He replied, with an accompanying swat to Greg Lestrade's ass.

Lestrade pinched a handful of John's ass cheek and kissed the top of the smaller man's head.

"Save something for later." He smirked and they both lulled to sleep to the sound of each other's steady heartbeats.


	12. A New Man

It didn't take long for word to spread around New Scotland yard about the establishment of the budding affair between DI Greg Lestrade and that guy who follows the psychotic detective to crime scenes. After a few short weeks, it became commonplace for John something-or-other to be seen wandering around the Yard offices having been gifted paper cups of expensive coffee and crumpled bags of pastries. He was welcomed with open arms by the men and women of the building because he was inadvertently made their lives much, much easier.

"He's like a new man! I have never seen such a transformation in all my life." Anderson spoke, taking a large gulp from his mug of coffee, wincing at the cheap bitterness and rolling his tongue to lessen its intensity.

"I don't know. He's bound to snap back to reality sooner or later. I've seen no sigh of John Watson in the place since last Thursday."

Anderson looked to Donovan and sighed, "You hardly think there's trouble in paradise already?"

"I wouldn't been too optimistic." She continued, her lips brought to one corner of her face in visible doubt.

"You're never optimistic, you big grouch." Anderson whined, elbowing his co-worker and ex-lover in the ribs.

"Says himself." She sniggered and took another sip from her cup.

"Well whatever happens long may it last, that's all I'll say." Anderson replied, a lazy smile playing across his lips. Both co-workers chinked their mugs together and smirked as the dull buzz of importance emerged from the elevator. The man in question walked towards his office door, followed by no more than four separate division secretaries demanding answers from the commanding officer. The swarm of people passed by the entrance of the small understocked kitchenette, where Anderson and Donovan stood appreciating the change in their boss.

Many things had changed about Lestrade in recent week. He stood taller than usual and his once stern features were somehow softer than usual. He wore brighter coloured suits and often brought up to the floor huge boxes of assorted donuts and pastries for his co-workers. And on no more than three occasions he invited both Anderson, Donovan and a few other friends out for drinks. The office seemed brighter and everyone who had regular and direct interactions with Lestrade seemed to glow with second-hand delight. But there was one big thing that stood out above all other changes that everyone saw, and that was his smile. When 'Greg' (as he had told everyone to call him) smiled, every people who saw the large wide grin couldn't help but reflect it. His lips would curl when he looked at his phone, or his eyebrows arched in delight when he would hear John's voice chatting away to a comrade when he was visiting the office.

And not only that, it was contagious. Like a domino effect, suddenly everyone in the office smiled more often. There were more 'thank you' cards stacked onto desks, more random acts of kindness performed in the office. Men held doors open for their female co-workers. People frequently offered to help each other get through their paperwork without having to be asked. As a result, more work was being done and some people were even doing extra work without hassle. Pamela had even set fire to the photocopier by accident one day and Lestrade sent her home to recover from the shock of the incident with a full day's pay.

Overall life was good in the offices of NSY.

"Get her to send it over today and I'll have it in tomorrow's post." Lestrade replied, responding to one of many inquiries that had been thrown upon him within seconds of entering the office block.

He closed the door behind him and plonked himself into his leather reclining chair, throwing his feet up onto the desk and bringing his ready placed coffee cup to his lips.

_Everyone in the office is so much nicer recently_, he though as the warm, perfectly brewed liquid flowed down his throat.

_Must be something in the air. _He grinned and looked out the glass panelled wall. The office was buzzing with life.

_You wouldn't think it was a Monday morning!_ He continued as the screen of his computer glowed to life.

Greg opened up his emails and scanned through the list.

Case advice.

Newsletter.

Follow up on…

Permission to…

I know who killed Victoria Vance, Mr. Gregory Lestrade.

Junk.

Newsletter.

Greg halted and brought his eyes up to the subject line of the email once again.

I know who killed Victoria Vance, Mr. Gregory Lestrade.

_Victoria… Vic… Vicky Vance. _Greg's eyes widened and he shot out of his seat and ran to the door.

"Donovan! Anderson! Here now. And get Matthews up here from I.T." he bellowed out the door, followed quickly by the shuffling feet on carpet.

Tweedle dumb and Tweedle dee entered the office and stood to order at the head of the desk.

"I've just received and email from an unknown source with a username of '3111939' claiming that they knew who killed Vicky Vance or 'V', the fashion designer. What does this line tell about the sender of the email? Have a look at this." Lestrade swivelled the monitor of the computer around and the two officials read the subject line.

Lestrade studied the faces of his co-workers as they turned the numbers and the phrase in their heads. A look of utter stupidity clouded over their features and Lestrade sighed loudly.

_Where did we even find these people? _He thought to himself.

A loud thud broke the lucid concentration of the two officials as a small, skinny man gracelessly wandered into the room with a large bag under one arm and a bundle of assorted cables under the other.

"Matthews-" Lestrade beckoned to the nervous, semi-hunched form of the man who entered, standing up and away from the desk. "We have a potentially threatening email. Would you be able to have a look at it?"

"I'll try my best, s-sir" Matthews stuttered before climbing into the seat Lestrade had just vacated.

He tapped away at the keypad and hovered the cursor over the email, with the intention of opening it.

"Oh, wait. What if it is booby trapped to send a virus through the system and hack our intelligence?" Anderson interjected, watching at Matthews hovered his finger of the button.

"Well it won't get much out of my emails anyway." Lestrade joked and the room filled with a light, pleasant laughter from all sides. Anderson and Donovan were enjoying the new light-hearted side of their boss.

"No, no fear of that. I checked the security of the IP server and it traces back to a stable…"

"Ok, ok that's enough intelligence for 9 o clock, thanks Matthews." Lestrade played with the nervous IT man.

"Ok, give me a few minutes, so I can double check for your own peace of mind" he responded, revealing a line of brace-covered teeth.

"Ok so. Geniuses-" he turned back to the other officials in the office. "-tell me anything you can pick out from what you have just seen in the username and subject line."

Donovan and Anderson looked vacantly at each other and back to their boss, shrugging their shoulders in silence.

"For Christ sake, nothing? Nothing at all?" Lestrade sighed, with playful dejection in his voice.

"We're not all as smart of that bloody psychopath you love so much." Donovan smirked, folding her arms across her chest in defiance, a cruel smile playing over her features.

The room fell silent for a moment and Lestrade returned to his desk his eyes narrow, clearly irritated by the statement.

Anderson turned to Donovan and narrowed his eyes. She shrugged her shoulders once more with a questioning glance towards Anderson. Whatever good mood spree the DI had been on for the last few weeks had finally been broken by Donovan and the brashness of her manner. It was presumed that Lestrade and Sherlock Holmes were closer now that he and John were seeing each other, so neither party could figure out what had caused the sudden coldness.

Lestrade faced out the window and picked up a small red stress ball from under his desk. Donovan turned to the front and cleared her throat. But no words came out.

"Go on, spit it out." Greg asked, a sliver of annoyance in his words, his eyes still looking out the window.

Once again Anderson and Donovan looked to each other's stupefied faces for their answer to a somehow mutual question. Donovan stood fidgeting with the skin on the sides of her fingernails, emitting small useless sounds.

"_Now_, Donovan. I don't have all day." Lestrade spoke, only now noticing that the email lay open on screen and Matthews was nowhere to be seen.

_He must have snuck out of the room without us seeing him. Clearly out of embarrassment for these two clots, _Lestrade thought looking at the two blank faces behind his desk.

"Is-is everything ok… with you." Donovan chose to act as speaker for both, with genuine concern in her usually harsh tone.

"Yeah, why?" a questioning look on his face.

"You just seem a bit off, and we haven't seen John in here since last week. Is everything ok with…?"

Lestrade narrowed his eyes at the two idiots standing before him, straightening in his seat as he did so.

"What has any of this got to do with John?"

They both widened their eyes and knew that they had officially crossed a line from which there was no return. A tangible fear had filled the room and Anderson immediately tried to apologise while Donovan stood motionless, her face still with fear.

"Oh gosh, sorry boss. I didn't- We didn't mean to…" Anderson started but was cut short by the upright palm of Lestrade's hand.

"Get out you pair of ninny's. And if you must know, not that my personal life is any of your business, but John was in Dublin at a conference last week."

Anderson continued trying to apologise as Donovan pushed him out the door, her face scarlet with embarrassment and his face white with fear.

Once the door closed Lestrade sighed and turned to the screen, examining the contents of the mysterious email.

Do not be alarmed. It was not I that killed her.

However, the name of the killer will come at a price.

I can provide convicting evidence to support my claim.

Meet me under the Southbank Bridge at midnight.

Lestrade read and reread the contents of the email. He scratched the back of his head and dived into his pocket.

He hit redial on his phone and held the object up to his ear.

Once the line connected and the familiar voice answered, Lestrade smiled.

"Hello love, Fancy going on an adventure?"


	13. lost souls inn

Southbank was the darkest most dilapidated area of London and held much accountability for the high rates of lower-class crime across central London. The long wide road was drilled with monstrous potholes and deep sprawling cracks. The once peaceful and adequate council houses that lined either side of the road now lay in mounds of crumbled bricks and wallpaper. The tall narrow houses loomed three stories in the air and their weak foundations groaned under the weight of cracked beams. The remains of some of the buildings had served as outhouses for senescent junkies and urban wildlife, while others had being transformed into makeshift laboratories for London's major drug syndicates. It was the kind of street the city councillors ignored and the police force bargained not to have to patrol. It was deemed a 'lost cause'.

The forgotten street.

John Watson leaned wearily against the beam of a flickering street lamp, the only lamp in the street that still had electricity flowing to it. He squared his thick shoulders and turned the collar of his coat up against the cutting winter winds. Spring was nearly upon them but the sharp gale and rainfall gave no differing indication of the change in seasons. He tried to peer in earnest through the broken windows of the rise of houses for any sign of life, but to no avail.

His heart leaped and a thick lump caught in his throat as several times he could hear the distant sound of footfall, or the definable click of a cartridge being loaded into a gun. John's eyes were wide and burning from the wind but he dared not close them. He rubbed his temples in a desperate effort to ease the headache which his trepidation had built in the front of his head.

It truly was a desolate place.

In the time John had been standing against the lamppost he had witnessed three vicious, faeces-caked rats devouring the grizzly remains of their fallen comrade, snarling as large chunks of furry flesh tore for the dead animal's body.

John held his breath and turned away from the spectacle, dreaming about lemon tartlets, banoffee pie and strawberry milkshakes, with a cherry garnish and a swirl of maple syrup drizzled across the top. John sighed and licked his dry lips as he imagined the thick creaming liquid flow down his throat.

He was abruptly broken from is dreaming by a light but definite pressure on his right foot, just beside his little toe. John recoiled in horror as one of the large, blood-thirsty rats started to chew through the thick leather of his dark shoes. Hopping in circles, John shook his right foot violently trying to loosen the grip of the tiny mammal from his shoe. In a whirl of fearful howls, he finally managed to flick the creature from his shoe. The little animal flew through the air in a low arc and landed in a flurry of feet and fur before scuffling unharmed into a nearby drain.

"Christ!" John gripped his heart and panted loudly.

"Nice to see you've made a new friend", a deep voice chuckled in the darkness of the icy night.

John spun around and could instantly feel the twang of tendons tearing in his neck, "Bloody hell. You nearly gave me heart attack! What the hell took you so long?" John cried, rubbing circles in his paining neck.

Greg Lestrade peered out of the darkness and stalked towards the shivering frame of the older man.

"None of the cabs would take me down this neck of the woods. Had to walk from Ballintyne on foot." Greg replied bringing his large hands up and rubbing John's whitened face.

"Where are we going? I don't particularly want to hang around here for any longer than necessary." John spoke through chattering teeth, eyeing the surrounding buildings like a deer during hunting season.

"All the email said was the Southbank Bridge. So I presume we follow the sound of the water." Greg spoke cocking his ear to the sound of distant gushing. "- this way" he smiled showing the way.

With every rattle of a dustbin or the eerie screech of a tomcat in the distance, the space between the two men decreased until they were rubbing shoulders.

"Why are we doing this alone? I mean, is there no one willing to take on the extra shift?" John's eyes darted around the area.

"The case _is_ technically closed. So I suppose there is nothing to compel the rest of them to take on the task." Greg sighed, dejection riddled in his word.

"But they never actually caught anyone for it. I don't get why the American forces are trying to claim the case anyway. It has nothing to do with them." John shuffled himself in his coat and dug his hands deeper into his pockets.

"They work in strange ways. Word around the office is that they are trying to hide something else about her affairs in America from us. She was such a financial investment to so many clothing companies that they had no choice to follow up and take over it with all their American efficiencies. So I decided that if they are keeping us out of the loop on our own soil, then they won't mind if we continue doing our own outside investigating." Greg smirked, throwing the rulebook out the window. "And what about himself? No sign of him to return to the land of the living?"

"He won't say anything. I had to take the packet of nicotine patches off him last week before I left. No doubt he had another packet by the time I reached the airport. He claims he knows who it is but he can't say anything because it would run the risk of spoiling the Yards opportunity of arresting the suspect. And he won't tell me… well… because of us."

"Fat lot of use that is to us. Always full of speculation that man is." Greg knitted his eyebrows together and frowning at the juvenile way Sherlock was handling their relationship.

A silence ensued between Greg and John as they passed a large burnt out barrel. John peered into the opening out of habitual curiosity. With a loud shrill screech, a wild scrawny cat jumped out of the darkness and reached out its claws within inches of the ex-captains face. John yelped and jumped back into Greg's embrace, his large arms cocooned around John's shaking frame.

"What the hell is wrong with the wildlife?" John spoke, his voice breaking under the strain of his frayed nerves.

"They must all be testing that tremor in your left hand." Greg teased and kissed John's cold forehead.

"Let's get out of here. Now!" John spoke breaking from Greg's arms and dashing hazily towards to noise.

About 50 yards ahead of them in the shows of the last of the buildings, a small rickety footbridge stretched between the two sides of the narrow Thames estuary.

Greg held up his arm in a protective stand in front of John, his hand balled into a fist. He placed a finger to his lips and cautiously walked towards a dark bundle which lay out in the open beside the bridge walkway.

"What if it's an explosive?" John whispered as they walked slowly towards the bundle which seemed to be wrapped in some sort of cloth.

"Well then you're coming with me." Greg winked and gave John's hand a tight squeeze.

The detective turned on a flashlight and threw the light on the mound which stood motionless on the cracked tarmacadam.

Inching slowly towards the package, Greg reached out his hand as quickly draw the cloth off the object.

It was a video tape.

The men stood for a long time and studied the familiar exterior of the tape.

Greg grasped the black rectangular cube and inspected it. He could see through the two plastic windows and noticed the black reel of tape was thick on one side, while the other side of the reel was white and empty.

Written in thick black letters across the white panel on the front read'

_Lost souls inn_

The two men stood looking at the words before turning to each other, a stupefied look on their faces.

"What they hell is _Lost souls inn_?" John finally spoke, breaking the eerie silence of the spooky landscape.

"I don't know, love. Never heard of it before." Greg looked back to John and shrugged his shoulders. Greg flipped over the case and spotted a note attached to the back casing.

In neat delicate writing the note read:

All the proof you need.

"Who does this guy think he is, the Riddler?" Greg scowled ribbing his large fingers across the lettering

"We need to get out of here. Now." John spoke in a rush of words.

Greg turned as spotted a group of men gathered on top of a mound of bricks in the distance, slurping from bottles concealed in brown paper bags. The men all turned their heads towards John and Greg and there was nothing but the sound of the water gushing beside them.

"I won't object to that. C'mon." Greg grabbed John's hand and they both made a dash back up towards the street. The distant glimmer of light seemed like a beacon from God sent down to guide them towards the hustle of civilization.

After 10 minutes or so, the two men stopped on the outskirts of the main Ballintyne road. Greg hailed a cab and they both climbed in hurriedly once a small man with a red baseball cap pulled up alongside them.

"Where are ye headed, boys?" the young man asked, rolling a piece of chewing gum in his mouth.

"221b Baker street, please." Greg called out to the taxi man and they sped away into the city lights.

Once John Watson and Greg Lestrade reached the flat, a small note was pinned to the front door.

I can't take it anymore.

Please come back, John

Mrs Hudson.

"That was dated Saturday." John spoke his voice laced with concern.

They clambered up the narrow staircase and burst in through the door into the kitchen. They were greeted to a countertop cluttered with vials of opaque yellow and green liquid and plates of variously discoloured meat.

The pungent stench of rotten flesh burned their nostril and both men gagged holding their mouths and noses in disgust.

"SHELOOOOOOOOOOOOOCK" John roared at the top of his lungs, his face growing redder and redder every second.

The two men stalked into the sitting area and were met by the meditative form of Sherlock cross-legged on the floor in his blue silk robe, exactly the same position he had been in when john left for Dublin last week.

"What in bloody hell are you doing to the kitchen? You know that smell won't come out of the fabric in the furniture. Where is Mrs Hudson?" John asked in a nasaly tone, still pinching his nostrils.

Sherlock sat in silence, his eyes closed and his hands resting lazily on his open legs. The material of his dressing gown barely moved, only that a scattering of cigarette packets lay in front of his feet, John would have guessed he hadn't moved since he left last Thursday.

"Sherlock!" Greg shouted stubbing his toe into the seated figures kneecap.

With a start, Sherlock emerged from his mind palace and his pupils blew out from a pin point into two saucers.

"What day is it?" he asked, his voice croaky from lack of use.

"Monday" John replied, cautiously removing his fingertips from his nose and adjusting to the smell of the slaughterhouse.

"Oh." Sherlock's face curdled as his senses adjusted to the smell of the flat. He looked up to the two men and frowned.

"Whoever's digestive tract made that stench I would recommend they see a doctor immediately." He continued before stretching his arms and back. He twisted sharply and several cracked reverberated along his spine.

John threw his hands in the air and walked towards the windows to let some fresh air into the place. Greg chuckled to himself in sheer exhaustion rather than humour.

"That wasn't us! That was your experiment in the kitchen." Greg spoke rolling his eyes at the frailty of the genius before him.

Sherlock cocked his eyebrows and sat pondering for a long moment. With a gasp he widened his eyes and jumped to his feet.

"Oooh my experiment! I was testing to see how long it would take for someone to notice the stench of a dead body in an urban location. So far the results seem to be inconclusive."

"Inconclusive?" John bellowed, "Mrs Hudson left on Saturday!"

"Hmmm. Maybe it is more substantial than I suspected." Sherlock mused to himself playfully.

"When was the last time you ate?" John asked with less of a tone of anger and more of genuine concern. After the last time Sherlock blacked out John had great fears of going away at all. The grown up child couldn't be left on his own.

"Saturday. I was cooking steak when I thought of my experiment."

Greg and John's faces contorted in repulsion.

"You are a sick man" Greg sighed reminding himself to never buy steak again or to let Sherlock cook for him.

The three men stood staring at each other, their eyes watering from the smell.

"Look we're hear about the 'V' case." Greg continued fishing around in his pockets. He produced the tape and handed it to Sherlock's looming form. "Ever hear of _Lost souls inn _before?"

Sherlock examined the tape by turning it around in his hand. "Heard of it? Aren't we all a part of it?"

Greg and John turned to each other with questioning looks on their faces.

"We're what?" Greg asked with his forehead tightened into deep wrinkles.

"_Lost souls inn! _You don't know what _Lost souls inn _is?" Sherlock deeply scrutinised the bewildered look on Greg and John's faces.

"Wow. It is remarkable how your meagre little brains manage to process the complexities of living." Sherlock sighed, like he was talking to single-celled amoeba.

"Go on so. Enlighten us." John looked to Sherlock and crossed his arms tightly across his chest.

"No exactly a difficult challenge." Sherlock smirked.

"Tell us the bloody story already." Greg's nerves were wearing thin and John stroked the back of Greg's arm at a soothing pace.

"Go on" John spoke, much softer than before.

"Well the modern day interpretation of _Lost souls inn _is more of a 'what' than a 'where', but _Lost souls inn _was actually an inn. It was based here in central London and catered for the needs of the lonely souls in the early 50s right through to the late 70's before it was converted into a shop. It was London's most well-known secret at the time. If you and your partner wanted some quality time together you booked into this place. It wasn't originally called _Lost souls inn, _but over time that's what it was dubbed. I can't remember the original name off the top of my head but it's in one of those books." Sherlock pointed to the top right-hand corner of the bookshelf.

"Yeah but what has _Lost souls inn _got to do with our 'V' case?" Greg interjected, his voice much calmer than before.

"Well she was a very politically involved gay rights activist, was she not?" Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows once more.

Once again the room was silent.

"Oh God, the vacancy is almost contagious" Sherlock pouted and slumped onto the couch.

"_Lost souls inn _was specifically for gay men. That's why it was so secretive in the 50s but became so recognised by the late 70s. Most people, including the police, presumed it was a den of solicitation and sexual infection. With the rage of AIDS in the west, it became a very popular place to raid. They often played movies against the back wall of the building. But mostly it was a civilized B&B style service. They were much more liberal thinking in that place than some people still are nowadays."

"Ok. So this inn was a gay hook-up spot? Where is it now?" John asked.

"No it was NOT a hook-up spot! It was a refined establishment which catered for the needs of those who were rejected from society because of something they could not control in themselves. England forced these men into hiding. They were ashamed of themselves and of the lives they longed to lead. Gay man could not go on dates or court each other in public in those days and _Lost souls inn _provide a refuge for the discriminated and abused English men."

John looked to a clearly agitated Sherlock and patted his arm gently. "But what would such a place have to do with Vicky Vance being murdered? At the hospital you said this was business related. What does her activism have to do with her business?"

"Don't know yet."

"I thought you said you knew who it was?"

"I do. But I don't know what he has to do with _Lost souls inn_. Each case is like a giant… well… to dumb it down for you two, a giant 'join-the-dots'. But we have to find the dots. They are hidden, waiting for us to find them. And once we connect them all we will have a clear picture."

"Do _we_ know the suspect?" Greg asked straining his words to as further emphasis.

"Yes, you do but in me telling you, you will be completely biased and you will point evidence to convict him, even if it doesn't add up in the greater picture."

That was all Sherlock said. He drew his lips into a tight line emphasising that he was no longer willing to continue on that topic.

"Oh for Christ sake! Ok. Ok, have it your way. So we know it? The building. Where abouts is it so?" Greg asked trying to keep his breathing regular.

"It's actually just off Gower Street, right beside your clinic." Sherlock replied looking towards John.

John's eyes widened and he stepped back towards Greg.

"It's between _The Lilybird _and the French cheese shop. It's an old dark building. It only has one small window in the front of the shop because no one wanted to be seen in the place. Probably hasn't been touched up since the 80s. You would hardly have noticed…"

Sherlock's words faded into white noise as a stark realisation swept across John. The blood drained in his face and his hands reached absent-mindedly for something to hold onto. Greg caught hold of John's weakening form and he lowered him into his chair. Sherlock continued talking unaware of John's shaken appearance.

"John, love. Are you ok? Hello? Sherlock! Shut up you great fool and get me a class of water. CLEAN water." Greg's voice began to crack as John sunk deeper into his dream-like state.

John could hear the worried expression in his boyfriend's tone but he couldn't revive himself just yet.

_This is what it must be like to have a proper Mind Palace_, he thought to himself.

He sat and soaked in the realisation.

"Ralph" He finally spoke.

"Ralph? Who the fuck is Ralph?" Greg Lestrade asked his boyfriend, whose face has turned pasty before his eyes.

"Ralph owns a small clothes shop beside the cheese shop. It has been in his family for generations. They were probably the ones who bought it from the previous owners of _Lost souls inn_." John spoke in quivers.

"The guy you buy your hideous shirts from?" Sherlock broke into the conversation.

"Yeah the same man."

"Well that's improbable because this man you speak of is at least 70 years of age. If his family have been in there for generations then they probably owned it before the shop opened up. It looks like maybe they were the original owners of _Lost souls inn" _

Greg turned in his crouched position and spoke directly to Sherlock. "Hold on. What are you saying? Is this man Ralph our suspect? Did he kill Vicky Vance?"

Greg could feel John's hand tighten in his.

John spoke softly, looking off into the distant space between dreams and reality. "I've known him since I was a child. He isn't capable of murder. It can't be him. It just… can't…be… can't… be…" John's face wrinkled into angry frows and he beat his fist off the arm of the chair.

Greg reached across and tried to calm John, the anger of a war-broken soldier tearing through the ex-captain's controlled exterior.

Sherlock shot out of his seat and reached for the video tape. "We need to watch this right away." Sherlock crawled on his knees towards the VCR and pushed the box into the mouth of the machine. The television flared to life and the three men sat staring at the lights that danced around on the screen.

It was footage from a CCTV camera. No sound emerged from the tape. It showed the dark interior of a clothes shop. It faced towards the door from behind the till with receipts in full view of the camera.

John's heart sank as an elder man walked onto the edge of the screen carrying a heavy looking box of shirts sealed in plastic bags and placed the box on the counter.

"Is that-" Greg whispered, rubbing small circles into John's hand.

John simply nodded his response and tightened his grip on the detective inspector's hand.

They both turned back to the screen.

The elder man unpacked the box in silence for several minutes, manually recording the prices and taking records of the stock in a large lined notebook.

Sherlock reached for the fastforward button on the machine but Greg shot him a dirty penetrative glare. Sherlock's eyes widened and he retreated sheepishly to his own seated position.

After several more minutes a young woman burst through the front door of the shop and visibly grimaced at the lazily managed and untidy state the shop was reduced to.

Everyone immediately recognised the face of Vicky Vance once she removed her large rimmed sunglasses. He wore a short fitted dress, looking more like she belonged in a nightclub rather than a men's clothes shop.

Moments of dialogue ensued between the elderly man and the young woman, both of them with smiles on their faces. After another few moments Vicky Vance reached into her bag and pulled out a large bundle of papers. They papers flapped about as she handed them to Ralph. He stood and studied the small print of the pages, flipping them over every few minutes, the smile slowly fading from his face. All the while, Vicky had continued taking. Ralphs face visibly changed after he reached page 7. The page was visible to the camera but unreadable. It was dotted with filled post-it notes and sticky arrows pointing to specifically underlined paragraphs. Vicky walked around by the back of the counter and began pointing to the same paragraphs which had already been highlighted. While she talked she pointed to specific parts of the shop, to the lights, to the window, down to the storage room. With every move she made, Ralph face grew visibly graver and graver. He handed the sheets back to Vicky and picked up his financial log. He turned to the last entry and began arguing with the young woman, pointing to figures in the ledger and back to the areas of the room she had previously mentioned. The softness in her face never subsided and her eyes grew heavy as the elderly man grew more and more aggravated. She visibly mouthed 'I'm sorry' several times in front of the camera in the time that followed. Ralph threw the notebook soundlessly onto the counter and threw his arms in the air, violently swinging them in large arches and pointing towards the young woman menacingly. Vicky looked fearfully at the older man and she began to back away from the counter and towards the door. In one second Ralph had Vicky by the arm and was shaking her violently, all the while shouting ferociously at the young women, her face showed every inch of fear. She began to cry out for help, her mouth opened wider and her head tilted towards the door.

It was over in a second and the three men shook violently as the elderly man picked a large marble paperweight from the desk and in one fluid motion he cracked the object against the young woman's temple. Vicky fell to the floor and disappeared behind the desk from the cameras view. Ralph dropped the object and it too disappeared from the cameras view. The old man cradled his tired time-worn face in his hand, visibly convulsing on screen.

With that the video faded to static and the three men were left to their own silence.

Greg turned to face John and a cold chill spread through his body in waves. John Watson's face was streaked red with glistening tears. He sobbed quietly and stared as the static rolled across the screen.

Sherlock reached over and turned the machine off and ejected the tape.

John turned and looked into Greg's eyes, which too had brimmed with tears.

"How could he do this? How could he…" John broke off before sliding off the chair and wrapping himself in Greg's embrace. He wept solemnly for what seemed like days to John and Greg waited patiently, curling his fingers into John's short blond hair.

"We have to find him. Tonight. We have to confront him about this. About all of this." John muffled into Greg's shirt.

Greg looked to Sherlock and was startled by the sheer emotion that spread across the younger man's features. His eyes were grey and heavy and he stared yearningly towards John's weeping form. Greg could see the dejection in Sherlock's eyes. There was sheer pain laced in the curl of his lips.

Empathy.

_Maybe he's not a psychopath after all, _Greg said to himself.

Sherlock reached his hand towards John, leaving it to linger in the air for a few moments. His fingers twitched but on making eye contact with Lestrade, he dropped his hand and brought it back into himself.

Greg had never seen anything like this coming from Sherlock before. It was almost like he was…

_Wait a minute. _

_What had John said about Sherlock in the hospital?_

Greg narrowed his eyes impulsively and Sherlock shrunk his limbs into himself.

_He's mine! _Greg roared in his own mind. _You cannot have him!_

"Sherlock, we have to find Ralph and put an end to this." John mumbled into Greg's shirt.

Lestrade shot a look towards Sherlock. Their eyes locked with a burning intensity.

_How dare John ask Sherlock for help? I'm a Detective Inspector of New Scotland Yard and his boyfriend! _

"O-of course, John. We'll go straight away." Sherlock croaked, a single tear glided down his cheek.

_Don't touch him! He's mine! All mine! My precious!_

And with a jump, Greg Lestrade broke away from his jealously driven possessiveness.

He looked down to John who clutched at a corner of Lestrade's shirt.

"How could I have been so blind?" Greg spoke just above a whisper. John lay quietly gathering up the pieces of his childhood and putting them back together piece by disjointed piece.

Greg looked up to Sherlock and repeated the sentence.

Sherlock looked to Greg and a single tear rolled down his cheek. Neither man spoke a word. Sherlock's face grew paler every second and the tears burned blood red canals into his cheeks.

"We're leaving. Now." Greg spoke loudly, lifting John into a seated position and leaving his leaning against the front of the chair.

Greg stood up and looked to Sherlock. Their eyes made contact once more and Greg walked out of the room.

Sherlock looked to John. He had stopped crying but he rested his eyes in the open palms of his hands. Sherlock slid across the floor and wrapped his arms tenderly around John's broad but weakened frame. John leaned into the taller man and sighed, like the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders. They sat in silence like this for mere minutes but it felt like a lifetime to Sherlock. When Greg entered back into the room, Sherlock turned to DI Lestrade and smiled weakly. Greg smiled weakly back, accepting and understanding the mutual affections both men had towards the small blonde military hedgehog wrapped in Sherlock's arms.

"Let's go, John" Sherlock inhaled John's scent before releasing John from his grips.

The room filled with tension as Sherlock glided past Lestrade to his own room alone.

On returning back, Sherlock slipped his arms into his coat. Greg grabbed John under the arms and lifted him onto his feet. All three men hobbled outside 221b Baker street that night different men than they had arrived


	14. The Frailty of Genius

The taxi ride to Gower st. was long and silent save the dull hum of city life zooming by in floods of noise and light.

John closed his eyes and tried to block out the propellant of cars, taxi's, faces, street corners and all that was carnivalesque about their great city.

Balls of bleached light zoomed by the windows and bled in through the thin layer of eyelid shutting John away from the world. The lights drew red and orange shapes behind his eyes and danced in unattainable swirls. Faces flashed in sharp pangs beside the twirling lights and John tightened his face in futile efforts to bash them aside.

Ralph. Vicky. Greg. Sherlock.

Every face brought with it reformed guilts and retiring detriments and in the grips of his mental paralysis, sharp, gnarled claws reached out from the darkness and burst through the fountain of lights. John slipped resultantly into his stream of consciousness.

Greg Lestrade sat nursing the hunched form of his boyfriend in the centre seat of the taxi. He lazily rubbed small circles with his fingertips into John's neck in an effort to sooth the knots of tension which stiffed his body. He stared out the window and sighed as street by street they made their way closer to the end of their line of enquiry.

"What does it all mean?" he asked, more to himself rather than to his comrades.

"Once again you're asking the wrong questions, detective." Sherlock sighed, tracing his fingers along the path of racing beads of rain on the cabs window, in their desperate dash for survival only to crash and disintegrate into the windows rubber frame.

Greg looked towards Sherlock's slouched form. He wore a dark suit and white shirt beneath his trademark high collared coat, but something looked… different about the man. His face seemed softer, less bone and more flesh, like he had gain several pounds by dressing himself. His eyes were dark but warm compared to the icy blue/green they sometimes reflected in the light. Overall Sherlock Holmes looked more… healthy and alive.

He smirked weakly before responding, "What questions should I be ask so, smartarse."

Sherlock twisted in his seat beneath the constriction of his seatbelt. His pupils blew out into eclipses and his mouth curled into its usual Cheshire cat grin.

"Let us look to all the facts we have. We have already established _who _killed Vicky Vance, the evidence is as plain as day. We know that some formal arrangement must have ensued between Ralph and Vicky Vance to do with the maintenance of the building due to the legal papers she carried with her. We also know that Ralph's business wasn't doing well judging by the frankly dilapidated state the shop was in. He couldn't pay for the upkeep or the renovations that the authorities were demanding. So the question is whether 'V' wanted to buy the building off him or to take it by force of legalities."

Greg shifted in his seat and leaned over John's dazed form.

"If she wanted to expand her business dealing in London it would have served local business' brilliantly. A high-end fashion designer moving into a relatively small area of town. If she had threatened his with a court case that would explain his rage."

Sherlock pondered this for a moment and brought his hands to a point over his lips.

"No. No there is something more to this."

He tapped his fingers together in drumrolls

Tat-tat-tat-tat.

Tat-tat-tat-tat.

Tat-tat-tat-tat.

In one moment, Sherlock drew a sharp breath into his chest and help it, releasing it slowly and with ease and pleasure as a wave of information flooded into his mind.

"Who sent us the tape?"

"What?" Greg asked, bewilderment musing his face.

"The tape! Who sent the tape? Ralph wouldn't have sent his own conviction to the police, the English police force no doubt. It is all over the news that the American forces have taken over the case so why would someone send it to the NSY?" Sherlock was practically jumping in his seat as he spoke.

Greg shrunk back as the animated man's eyes before him glossed with excitement.

"Someone who wanted New Scotland Yard to get the credit for the capture."

Greg connected the web of dots Sherlock had shown him and his eyes narrowed at the picture they formed.

"You can't honestly believe that it was someone on our own force that sent the tape! That's completely…"

"Idiotic? I know. Most of the staff in that place are though. Stupid enough to want all the credit." Greg stared penetratively at Sherlock's bouncing form.

"Don't take it personally, almost everybody is to some degree an idiot."

Greg rolled his eyes put played along. He would have to suck up his pride for the sake of prevailing justice.

"Ok. I'll bite. So we have to establish if any of the staff in the Yard has any connections to the Vance family or to the… the… John? Jooohn? What is Ralph's surname?" Greg cooed to the hunched man to his side.

"Majhskdk" John pushed through his tired lips, his eyes still closed and his face still in his hands.

"He's Russian?" Sherlock cocked his eyebrow questioningly.

John straightened himself in the seat and squared his shoulders, letting Greg's hand slip from his neck.

"Matthews. Ralph Matthews."

Greg sat in silence and remembered just that day the short nervous man who had hacked the emailed from his account, his beady eyes hidden behind thick rimmed glasses.

"Matthews." He sighed loudly.

"What? What? Who? Who is Matthews?" Sherlock shot his questions to the shocked detective inspector.

"Daniel Matthews. He's an IT techy in the office. He deciphered the email I got from… from…"

As the pieces slotted together Greg gasped and brought his hand to his mouth.

"He was right under our noses this whole time." Greg growled balling his hands into tight fists and trying to maintain his breathing.

John turned to Greg and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"It's ok, love. I know for a fact that Ralph doesn't have any children which must make Daniel his nephew or godson or something." John soothed Greg speaking to everyone.

"But why would Daniel want to convict his uncle or whoever he is to prison? Up until this point there was nothing leading to Matthews' residence."

"We're about to find out" Sherlock spoke gravely as the cab pull up to the side of the clothes shop, to _Lost souls inn_.

Sherlock Holmes, John Watson and Greg Lestrade hopped out of the cab and sprinted to the front door of the old, time-worn building. Sherlock slowed the crowd with his arm and pinned his ear to the door.

John and Greg watched as Sherlock's expression changed from blank to curious to heightened animation.

"Two male voices. One old, one young. Can't hear specifics. Oh, wait. Something something 'contract', 'will'. Ah ha! Inheritance. Got you now Daniel."

Sherlock turned back to John and Greg and asked, "Did either of you bring your guns?"

John threw his arms up in the air and Greg stared at the consulting detective.

"No I didn't bloody well bring my gun with me" John threw back at the younger man.

"I left it in your flat."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Why in the world would you leave it in our flat when there is actual danger here."

"I've taken the precaution of always bringing my gun to your flat for fear that one of your experiments has come to life and might start a rampage on the city!" Greg aggressively whispered to Sherlock, who only groaned in response.

"Ok. So now what?" Greg continued after a few moments of tangible aggravation between all parties.

"You know jiu jitsu, Sherlock. You might finally come in useful at a throw-down." John sarcasictaly suggested.

"It's Bartitsu, you moron." Sherlock scowled at John.

"I don't care what it is, just use it!" John shouted in a whisper.

"Yes and the velocity of a bullet can be impeded by the speed of my feet! You were a soldier, as you like to keep reminding us. Go on. Do something soldiery." Sherlock whispered aggressively back.

"Keep that tone up and I'll do something very soldiery to you, prick!" John's eyes narrowed and a silence ensued between the two men.

"Ladies. Calm your tits. Listen." Greg sighed and planted his ear to the door.

The room was silent.

"Quick. I think they heard you two bickering." Greg stood up from the door and braced himself. In one, two, three strikes, DI Lestrade kicked in the worn lock on the front of the shop. He grabbed his badge and held it up in full view of the occupants. The unarmed DI, unarmed soldier and a consulting 5 year old crept quietly through the open door.

The shop was dark and empty, save the dim light of an energy-saving bulb, swinging from its plug from the force of the door. The finely tuned ear of the DI twitched as the dull murmur of hushed restraining echoed from down the passage to the general store room.

John surveyed the area, knowing exactly where they might be hiding admits the railings and shelving. He stepped out of the huddle towards the front desk when he was stopped by the force of Lestrade's hand clasped around his wrist.

John turned and was spooked by the sheer terror in Greg's eyes.

"Don't. Please." Greg mouthed noiselessly and squeezed John's wrist tighter.

They stared at each other for a long moment before John sighed and returned back to where he stood behind Greg who reluctantly let go of his wrist.

Looking behind at John and smiling weekly, Greg called out to the empty room, "This is Detective Inspector Lestrade of New Scotland Yard. Please come out slowly and quietly with your hands where I can see them."

The room filled with a desperate tension as the sound of movement from the storeroom amplified in the sharp silence of the vacuum.

A parade of twisted limbs emerged from the darkness as a small dark hair man clutched the shop owner around the throat with his left arm, pointing a sharp letter-opener against the sinewy neck of the elderly man.

Ralph Matthews cried quietly in the grasp of the young man and reached helplessly towards John's stunned form. A large slash gaped open on his forehead and dark blood trickled into the deep wrinkles of his eyes and cheeks.

John could taste bile in the back of his throat at the sight of his old family friend bound and injured in such an indignant manner.

"Daniel-", Lestrade spoke in a soft but authoritative tone, pointing his fingertips and ID badge towards the perpetrator. "-this doesn't have to end like this. You're a good kid. Let the man go."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you? Or are you the sort that likes to be tied up? " Daniel spat ferociously, thick veins visible on his neck and temple, an American twang in his accent.

Greg, Sherlock and John looked from one to the other, genuine confusion laced in their features.

"You what?" John asked, his brows knitted together.

"You've an American accent?" Greg dropped his hands slowly, easing the tension that had built between the two sides.

"Are you sure this is Daniel?" John continued speaking much more relaxed than he should be to Sherlock and Greg.

"Oh it's him alright." Sherlock spoke.

"What?" John and Greg asked simultaneously.

Sherlock turned and lowed his rigid hands to his side.

"Daniel Matthews, my dear friends, is in fact Ralph's son."

"What?" once again Greg and John spoke as one.

"Will you please stop doing that? It's rather annoying." Sherlock twisted his lips and nose into an irritated scowl before turning back to the hostage situation and continuing, "You're how old? 25-26? Which would make your birth year late 80s. Funny how you were born around the time that Lost souls inn disappeared off the map. You were one of the first children to be adopted by gay parents in Britain. You used to ask yourself why did you have two daddy's when every other boy and girl had a mommy?"

Daniel twitched and licked his lips, his gaunt face trickled with sweat.

"Do you know what is was like? Growing up with two fathers! The other kids teased me for years." He shouted pinning the blade further to his father's throat.

The three men raised their hands in protest to calm the situation, their eyes wide with fright. After a few minutes of heavy breathing Sherlock continued.

"Your father's moved to America when you were born, a more understanding and liberal country in the 80s, to raise you. But let me tell you now. It wasn't the fact that you had two fathers that resulted in other boys and girls teased you. That was just children being children. You had adapted a British accent off your parents and the other children were just picking up on that. Innocent and harmless. But you saw that because you had two father and other children didn't that they were the reason you were being picked on."

Daniel furrowed his eyebrows and dug the blade deeper in Ralph's neck, a tiny trickle of blood rolled down the length of skin.

"You grew to hate everything about your parents. They loved you and went to great lengths to ensure your happiness, you were better looked after than most children of heterosexual couples. Private schools, tutors, sports scholarship, top class at university graduating at 18 years of age. There are very few in the world as fortunate as you. But you weren't happy with all of that because you were different. Your difference moulded you into the highly successful man you are today. Am I right Lestrade?"

Greg was startled by the sudden urgency his words would weigh. "Y-yeah. We had a battle against other companies' f-for your employment."

Daniel relaxed his hand and the blade released the father's skin from its grips. Ralph whimpered from the release and screwed his eyes shut. Whatever Sherlock was doing, it was working. Very, very slowly, Sherlock urged his way towards the desk and John followed suite, barely noticeable to the naked eye.

"When your family returned to England to look after this place, you were set to inherit it all. You took a job here in London and everything was going great. You would set up your own business and live here, happy as a clam."

Daniel's face relaxed, his eyes fixed on Sherlock.

"How can you possibly know all of this?"

"Well it's simply a matter of looking in the right places. For example by looking around this place I can tell you have a very keen eye for…" Sherlock began to rattle of his deductions, a distraction no doubt to give Greg and John times to think of a plan.

John spied as Ralph raised his hand up to the blade, which was now resting on his shoulder. John locked eyes with the elderly man and they stared knowing to ready their positions.

"…and at the way you tie your shoe laces…"

John touched Greg lightly on the back. The DI looked to the tensed prepared form of the elderly gentleman, who by this time had his arm placed between his pressure point and the letter opener.

Both men stared as Ralph readied himself.

The tension mounted and Sherlock just kept talking.

"Really? And what about if I had used a different detergent?" Daniel asked, forgetting himself and falling, like an insect into Sherlock's trap.

Ralph met Sherlock's eyes and nodded. John and Greg held themselves at the ready.

The game was set.

"Then that would lead to- VATICAN CAMEOS"

In a flurry of limbs, Ralph dropped out of Daniel Matthews' loosened grip to the floor. Sherlock hurled his large frame across the desk and slammed the young man's wrist into the wall. One, two three hits and the young man's bunched hand relaxed and the blade fell to the floor. Lestrade climbed the counter and pinned Daniels small frame to the back wall. Sherlock searched the desk and grinned as a long clear length of zip-tie flopped in his hand. He locked the perpetrators wrists together and threw him to the floor. The dull thud of bone crashing against carpet sent a chill through John as he nursed the superficial wounds on Ralph's neck.

It was all over in less than 10 seconds.

"Nice job" Greg smirked, patting Sherlock on the back. They watched as the small man wriggled on the ground. Greg picked his mobile phone out of his pocket and called for backup officers.

When he finished the call, Greg studied the tall, proud form of the consulting detective he had grown to admire over the years. He thought about the changed exterior of the once stern, unfeeling being that so easily let the lives of the innocent wash away and was capable of causing further physical pain to the dying.

This was not simply the Great Man that he told John about during the drugs bust in their flat all those years ago. Sherlock Holmes had become a Good Man. By his affections and his companionship he had become more than a man, he had been humanised.

Sherlock turned and smiled. He pointed to the wriggling man and giggled.

"The frailty of genius, it demands an audience."

Greg laughed heartily at the irony. He checked his watch. It was nearly 3 am. Greg stalked towards Daniel on the floor and bent to look directly into his eyes.

"What were you doing here his late in the night with your father? We're you expecting us to come?"

Sherlock cleared his throat. "I may as well finish my deductions before you are taken away." His face contorted into a hateful grimace as he looked at the small narrow face of the young man.

"You did some research into the history of the building, so you would be able to modernise it when your time came. But you didn't expect to find out the true history of what happened here. When you found out that it was an establishment for gay men to meet and date, you were enraged. That was how your fathers' met and this building was the reason you are lying on that floor right now. You couldn't handle the thoughts of keeping the historical 'den of solicitude' open under your name. So you brought it to the attention of your father here with us. Having a great fondness for the memories that the place held for him, Ralph drew up a new will that stated that you would only inherit the building if it were to remain untouched. It could be revamped alright but no wall was to be knocked, no brick to be removed. This further enraged you."

Daniel snarled on the floor, twitching violently as Sherlock's narrative hit all the spots correctly.

"It was then that you decided to contact 'V', an old childhood friend you had made on her frequent trips to the States as a child. You told her than the building was in desperate need of repair but that your father was unwilling to do anything about it. You told her that if she were to settle the legalities that you would sell her produce rent free. What you didn't expect was for 'V' or Victoria as you have always known her as, and as how you addressed her in your email to our dear DI, to die by the hands of your own father."

Ralph, who had been quiet up to this point, began to sob solemnly cradled in John's arms.

"You're plans were ruined by the man you had blamed for the teasing and the name calling you endured as a child. So you decided to get your own back on him by exposing his crime and because you work for the Yard you would be indirectly praised for bringing down your own father. Well done, I say. Bravo."

Sherlock mockingly clapped and the young man rolled on the floor.

"Gentlemen, it seems we've got ourselves our very own gay-hater. Did I miss anything?" he smirked, curling his lips in a devilish grin at his own success.

"I would have owned this place. But at least he will rot in jail for the rest of his miserable existence. You're all nothing but dirty fa-OOOOF"

The young man cried out in pain as the toe of Greg Lestrade's shoe sharply collided with Daniel Matthews' stomach.

"You ok, son? Looks like the 'shock' is setting in." Lestrade spoke, very diplomatically.

"I wholeheartedly agree with you" John spoke aloud.

"As do I." Sherlock tapped Greg lightly on the back and both men smirked as a team of officers barged in through the front door.

John whispered to the weak, blood-soaked elderly man in his lap, "I'm so sorry, Ralph. I r-really am." John cleared his throat and tried to maintain his composure.

"I know. You do the right thing. I'm old anyway. I've done my living. I've travelled the world and raised a son. Some people never get the honour of either. I'm happy knowing that I tried my best from him. I would have given him my blood. But it seems blood just wasn't enough. I'm sorry. I'm so terribly sorry for the pain we have caused you."

John smiled weakly as a single tear streamed down his cheek. "It's ok. No bother to us young men."

John and Ralph looked at each other knowingly before they both rose off the floor.

Ralph nodded to Lestrade and walked proudly towards the arresting officers.

"My name is Ralph Matthews and I am responsible for the death of young Victoria Vance." He held his hands out and the officer slapped handcuffs on his narrow wrists.

As father and son were walked in handcuffs out of thee building, Greg walked towards John and pulled the shorter man into a tight hug.

"It's over. It's done," he cooed into John's ear, threading his fingers through the older man's blonde hair.

"I just want to go home at this stage" John sighed before the DI captured John's lips tenderly in his own.

Sherlock stood awkwardly watching as his two friends kissed.

"Hmm. Right ok. I see. I will. Just. I mean. I'm going to… ok. Right." Sherlock stalked out of the building, leaving the two men alone and giggling at their clueless genius.


	15. The last stroke

Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.

The clock chimed on the mantle piece.

The weary frames of ex-army captain John Watson and Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade broke sluggishly through the door of 221b Baker St.

Sherlock had left the crime scene early and came straight back to their flat before darting out the door to wander around the city at dawn. To the genuine surprise of the two men, the mass of dead cow carcass had been removed from the kitchen and their nostrils burned with the smell of bleach.

"At least it's not rotten meat." John chuckled as he made his way towards his bedroom door.

Greg stretched and twisted his torso as John unlocked the door, cracking several of her vertebrae in the process.

"Don't do that!" John swatted Greg in the stomach and chucked at the dramatic Ooofgh his tap produced in the younger man.

"Oh I am so looking forward to this." Greg sighed as he collapsed face down across John's bed once the door had been opened.

John's bright eyes were heavy and glassy with tiredness and he crawled on top on Greg and plonked down on top of him, flattening Greg into the mattress.

"Get off, you great big lump" Greg muffled into the duvet.

John playfully swatted his boyfriend's ass and thrust his hips up and down, increasing the force of his weight.

"Oooh. I don't mind that" Greg grinned, looking seductively to John's sleepy form.

"No. No. Nonononononononono" John rambled. In a split second Greg had flipped the smaller man on his back and began to playfully tickle all over John's body.

"Ph-please, no. Stop. I'm so sleeeeepyyyyy" John whine as Greg found a particularly sensitive area beneath John's knees. The older man yelped and kicked his legs in the air from Lestrade's grips. Greg made his way back up to face level and took John's lips gently between his own.

They lay caught in each other's embrace and lapped their lips together over and over. John sucked on Greg's bottom lip while the other parted John's and darted his wet hot tongue into the space made. John groaned at the entrance and his hands clutched handfuls of Greg's shirt, tugging it up and out of his trousers. Their mouths collided in a flurry of lips and tongue and hot breaths. Greg moved and playfully nibbled and sucked on the lower part of John's Jaw. The ex-soldier could feel something stirring in his trousers and Greg smirked as a long drowsy moan escaped John's lips.

"I though you said you were sleepy?" Greg smirk and bit down on a sensitive area behind John's ear.

John whimpered and gasped as Lestrade unbuttoned John's shirt and began to suck at one of the hard red nub.

"Oooooooooh yeeeeeeah" John sighed, feeling his trousers tighten with sensation.

"You like that, don't you? You bad boy." Greg growled seductively and flipped the nipple with his tongue, never breaking eye contact with his lover.

"Oh. God. Yeeees." John jolted as Greg took the other nipple between his thumb and index finger and squeezed it gently. John's trousers were stiff with tension as Greg swapped sides and began to lick and suck the other nipple.

"You want some more?" Greg cooed and licked and sucked his way down John's chest. John twitched as Greg's teeth nipped at parts of his torso the further he moved.

Greg rubbed his hand over the tight bulge in John's pants and smirked.

"You are gonna love this, baby." Greg unbuckled John's belt and dragged bottoms, pants and all, too the doctors knees. John large member sprang from the restriction of his trouser and Greg gripped the muscle in his hand. John expelled weak breathless sounds from his mouth as Greg's tongue played with the tip of Johns' cock which leaked with pre-come.

Greg dipped his head and felt the bulbous tip brush against the back of his throat.

_Having no gag-reflex really has some use after all. _Greg chuckled to himself and coaxed his fingers with John's pre-come and his own saliva.

"How about I help you to become more… relaxed." Greg trailed his words and his hand down past John balls and perineum, kissing and sucking and licking as he passed them.

John lifted his hips in reaction and bunched his hands in his own hair. He lifted his hips once more are Greg pulled his trousers and pants off entirely, while quickly removing his own clothing.

Greg's swollen with friction lips found the entrance they had been looking for and he kiss the ring of muscle. John let high-pitched whims fall from his lips and Greg moaned as his tongue delved in past the tight ring of muscle.

"Oh. Oh wow. Oooooh woooow" John exclaimed and threaded his fingers through Greg's silver hair, grabbing two handfuls and pulling very gently, eliciting a small muffled moan from Greg's full mouth.

John could feel his hair stand on end as Greg removed his tongue and dipped one saliva drenched finger into the opened muscle. The solid object inside of John made his mouth water and his eyelids flutter.

"More." He panted.

"You want more?" Greg asked, a cheeky grin playing across his lips.

"Oh God please give me more." John rubbed his fingertips into Greg's scalp in small circles. Greg moaned at the contact and quickly inserted a second finger.

He could feel John's ass tighten around his fingers and he scissored it open. Greg licked the perineum in front of him and John elicited a sharp cry of delight. At this, Greg began to pump his hand inside John's ass and sucked the skin beneath his tightened testicles.

"Baby, I-I'm not gonna last much longer. Please. Please come inside me." John whimpered throwing his head from side to side. Greg pulled his fingers from John's now loosened ass and reached over to the night stand. He opened a drawer and removed a packet of lubricant. He opened and squeezed the cold liquid on his hands before rubbing the length of his own cock with the liquid. He bent and re-inserted his lube coated fingers into the smaller man's ass and he groaned loudly with pleasure. Greg adjusted himself between John's legs and placed the tip against the ring of muscle.

"Are you sure?" he spoke just above a whisper and rubbed John's leg reassuringly.

"I'm more than ready for you, Greg Lestrade." John smiled and grabbed his lovers hand in his own.

They both spoke without saying anything and with one push, Greg inserted himself into John's ass.

John whimpered and took hold of Greg's arms.

Greg stopped in fear of hurting the man beneath him but John smiled and encouraged him further.

Starting slowly, Greg pushed himself into John and pulled back out almost to the tip. John tightened around the tip and Greg almost lost it on the spot. He brushed it off and pushed back into John's tight ass.

The pace quickened and the noise of their bodies sliding off one another in a mass of lube and sweat only fuelled Greg to pump harder and harder into John. Faster and faster he pushed, feeling his orgasm build in the base of his stomach. He heave and groaned as with ease his long cock pumped into John's ass. With a yelp, Greg knew he had hit John's prostate and he knew that it was only a matter of minutes.

It wasn't long until both men cooed their warnings.

"I'm so close, love." Greg panted, his face glistening with sweat.

"Oh. God. Me too… I can't. I-I-I- awhhhhhhhh" John choked and released, spilling out all over Greg's chest. As John's ass muscles tightened Greg lost control and a hot flush ran through him as he spilled his seed into John's entrance.

Both men collapsed into a mound of limbs and sweat. Greg's head was spinning with the intensity of the orgasm and his whole body was sensitive to the touch. John's eyes opened and closed out of sync, like a man full of morphine.

"Wow" was all that John could manage.

"Wow indeed." Greg smirked and grabbed for John's hand.

"I mean, just, wow." John continued to ramble in his post-orgasmic haze.

Greg sniggered and rolled over, placing a firm kiss on top of John's head.

The smaller man reached for his mouth but Greg pulled away.

"You might not want this tongue anywhere near your mouth any time soon."

John looked confused but smiled cheekily when he remembered the reason.

"You are just amazing, Greg".

The both laughed and began to doze into a peaceful sleep when a loud crash awoke them from their slumber.

Sherlock Holmes walked into the room talking, not even bothering to look at the bed while speaking.

"So I'm just back from the Yard and they boys said that everything has been wrapped up. Ralph confessed to the murder, Daniel confessed to attempted murder and being a general dickhead. The American forces will collaborate with the Yard since it is us that roped in all the evidence and the killer. They said they will need your statement at some stage todaaaaaaaaa…" Sherlock froze on the spot motionless as Greg and John pulled the covers up around themselves in haste.

"AAAAaaargheseeyoutomorrowmaybeatsomestage" Sherlock whizzed in one breath and literally ran from the room, his arms flailing in the air and his coat swishing in the breeze of his getaway.

Greg and John looked to each other for a few moments before bursting into throes of uncontrollable laughter. Greg wiped his eyes with the back of his hands and turned to John, who was clutching his chest with laughter.

Greg leaned up on his elbow to speak to John.

"We discovered a different side of Sherlock tonight, don't you think so?" he asked, rubbing his free hand lazily across Johns' chest.

"He did seem a lot more… human. I don't know really to be honest. All I know is that he is a good man and we owe him so much more than we give him credit for."

"Would you ever have gotten with him?" Greg asked without a tinge of jealousy in his words, only curiosity.

"In another lifetime? Maybe. But for now I'm perfectly content to finally get some sleep." John smiled and wrapped his arms around Greg, pulling him to the bed.

Greg nuzzled into John's neck and smiled before they both nodded off into a peaceful dreamless sleep.

The End.


End file.
